All that matters
by Rephis
Summary: The case would have been difficult enough without all the fuss around it, and the fact that it was so personal for both John and Sherlock only made it harder. Unfortunately, sometimes even the best need others' help. No slash. Post-Reunion. A tale about an everlasting friendship.
1. Just another one

_**Author's note**: Finally, after over half a year of trying I managed to write something. I still can't really believe it._

_Okay, I know not many people read Author's notes, but whatever. I need to thank Benfan for inspiring me to try writing on my own. All these exchanges we had were a fantastic encouragement. Thank you, dear ;)_

_Now, mind that English is not my first language and I have no idea about the rules of proper writing, so don't expect too much. Corrections are welcome, of course!_

_This story isn't actually a case fic, and Sherlock's brilliance doesn't play the key role here. It's more about friendship and . . . okay, I'm not going to say more :D You'll have to read it to find out._

_Anybody, enjoy!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock' and let's just leave it here, you know everything._

* * *

It was their work; they were there to offer comfort, guidance. Every call was different, for no two incidents are ever identical and neither are people's reactions. Sometimes it was just about a harmless quarrel, other times it was blood-chilling, real-life horror stories. No matter what happened, they had to keep their heads clear, which was something they learnt throughout years of practice.

When phone number 5 started ringing it was only a matter of seconds before the steady hand of a dispatcher picked up the receiver. For that woman it was just another call, one among thousands; for those on the other end it was the beginning of a drama that was going to haunt them for the rest of their lives. But if _she_let her herself think about that, she would not be able to provide help.

Her voice was determined and calm when she spoke.

"911 Emergency Centre, how can I help you?

Rustling and frantic voices echoed in the phone, and few seconds later a shaking male voice resounded.

"Hello?! I need an ambulance right know, my neighbour's wife has been attacked!" the man yelled.

"Okay, please stay calm sir. I need you to tell me what happened exactly."

"I don't know, I . . . There is blood everywhere . . . . He is with her, I heard him from my flat and just came to see what happened. Oh God, I think she's . . . " His voice broke suddenly and he only breathed soundly into the phone. The dispatcher could also hear a muffled voice from nearby.

"Okay, sir what is the address?'

"It's, um . . .Cavers' Street 11. Hurry up! Jesus . . . ."

"It's okay sir, the ambulance will be there in a few minutes," said she, already alerting the police and the nearest hospital.

She heard him move the phone away from his ear to tell the husband of the victim about the upcoming ambulance. When he placed the receiver back to his ear she spoke again.

"Can you tell me your name? And the name of the attacked woman?"

If possible, the man's voice became even more shaky.

"M-my name is Robert Jenson. I . . . I don't know her name, I've only just moved in, should I ask him? He's . . . resuscitating her. Please, you have to hurry up!"

"No, do not disturb him. I am going to hang up now and I want you to be outside when the police and the ambulance get there, okay? But before they do, you'll need to stay with your neighbour and help him if he needs you."

"Alr-alright. Thank you!" he breathed, calming down just a bit.

"Okay, Robert. Everything will be fine, just do what I asked of you."

Soon, the call was disconnected.

And that was it for her. She wasn't indifferent, no, but years of dealing with similar calls would harden anyone. It was necessary if one didn't want to lose their mind.

.

Cold, piercing wind that still carried winter tore its way through upper branches of the shyly greening trees, severing some of the most fragile buds, and thus ending their short lives. After a few moments of a chaotic dance between massive trunks, the roguish breeze abandoned the patient trees and headed where it could cause a bigger fuss - towards a group of apparently displeased people gathered in the middle of the park.

Ah, people were always a great target of teasing, particularly when they were on edge; it was so easy to further anger them and incite the unleashing of that anger on whatever or whoever was at hand. Forces of nature didn't need to pay any heed to men's wrath, however; only other men did.

The frigid blast went right through the middle of the crime scene, tugging at police tapes and coat lapels, ruffling hair and eliciting hisses and curses from the gathered of people.

Detective Inspector Lestrade shivered and hid his hands in his pockets, inwardly cursing the atrocious weather. He glanced at the man beside him who was apparently unaffected by the wind. Only his curls and billowing coat gave an indicator that he was experiencing the aura's antics too.

The DI looked at him expectantly, wanting to hear the brilliant deductions and the standard batch of insults of his intelligence as soon as possible, so that he could hide in his cosy car. Sherlock Holmes ignored him, and annoyingly slowly crouched in front of the body. He tilted his head from side to side and changed position multiple times to observe the cadaver from various points. Finally, he rose and sighed heavily.

"Well, it was a waste of time, as expected. Nothing out of ordinary here," he said in a bored tone, not looking at the body or the inspector, who frowned. Greg was well used to Sherlock's arrogance, but he was feeling really cold and his patience was wearing thin.

"Care to elaborate?" he asked, straining to keep his voice mild.

The other man gave him a reluctant glare, and after a dramatically sharp inhale he granted him with a response.

"It only takes one look to realise that she was murdered somewhere else. Whoever brought her here was most certainly of athletic build - she wasn't dragged but carried," Sherlock recited lazily, gesturing to the ground."You're looking for a person, a man most likely, who . . ."

Suddenly, the sound of his phone ringing interrupted him. A deep frown crossed his features as he angrily fished the device out of his pocket. He gave it a disdainful glare, looked at the screen and his frown deepened. Lestrade was quite surprised to see the lanky detective answer the call; the greeting he gave, however, was not surprising at all.

"What?" Sherlock threw out.

The DI rolled his eyes and smiled with a corner of his lips, but the smile died on his face when he saw the expression on Sherlock's. The younger man seemed to be very far away for a moment. Wind played in his hair, as if it was trying to tease him.

He closed his eyes and stood in silence, not even once interrupting the speaker. When he did speak, his voice was unnaturally small.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Lestrade felt an uncomfortable weight in his stomach, for seeing the perky genius taken aback so quickly could not mean anything good.

"What happened? Is something wrong?" he asked concernedly.

The young detective didn't say anything, just opened his eyes, turned abruptly and marched away, leaving the policeman flabbergasted. Greg called out after him, but received no reply. He was about to follow the other man when an officer with some urgent questions stopped him.

Lestrade cast a look after Sherlock, feeling that he should go after him, demand answers. Alas, he couldn't abandon the crime scene at the moment, so he just sighed with resignation and turned to the officer. Such strange episodes occurred in the past - Sherlock would suddenly leave the scene for no apparent reason, annoying the hell out of everyone. The DI prayed that it was one of those cases, but deep down he knew it wasn't.

Sherlock made his way through the crowd of policemen and onlookers, ignoring the glares and occasional calls for his name. Everything seemed so distant, unimportant, even more than usual. He unconsciously broke into a run.

* * *

_It's short, I know. The next chapter won't be much longer, but the following ones will, I promise._

_I would be most grateful if you left a word or two, it would mean a lot to me ;)_


	2. A burglar in the night

_The scene from the previous chapter will be explained soon._

_A warning: since John's my favourite character there's a fair chance that a big part of this story will told more from his point of view. But don't worry, Sherlock will not let him have all the fun!_

_Thank you Benfan and Isayan for following and commenting :)_

_I don't own 'Sherlock', someone else does._

* * *

_Two weeks earlier_

"What do you think? Does it look good?"

She tilted her head slightly, squinted and straightened her neck. Then she made some sort of an noncommittal noise that told him nothing at all.

He sighed dramatically and looked at his wife expectantly, feigning annoyance.

"Well? Can I get down now?" The ladder was not steady at all.

"Half an inch to the left and it'll be perfect."

John did as he was told and soon the picture was neatly placed on the wall and the ladder not so neatly discarded in the closet.

Both Watsons had to prepare for the evening and worriedly realised they had very little time left to do it properly, so rushed and chaotic treading soon echoed in their flat. They almost collided multiple times and some quite colourful curses also did not go amiss but the pair was ready in record time.

Making the last adjustments to his tie John glanced at the reflection of Mary in the mirror. She was fighting with the clasp of her bracelet, her face adopting that look of irritation he considered particularly lovely. Their eyes met.

"What?" she asked playfully.

He smirked in response. "You."

Barely containing a smile she finally closed the clasp, straightened her back and reached for her jacket.

"Well, don't just stand there doctor, we need to hurry up. Grab your coat."

His smirk deepened. Oh, the night was going to be eventful and he didn't just mean the visit to the theatre. He was perfectly capable of sensing when his wife was in the best of moods and he was quite proud of that fact. That was definitely one of these days. Granted, there were…many of them. Satisfyingly so but that made him proud as well. Nothing to pump a man's morale more than being able to satisfy his woman.

Still smirking he quickly shrugged his coat on and followed Mary into the awaiting cab.

Five hours later he could barely remember what the act was about. He was too busy trying to catch his breath, inwardly congratulating himself on being once again right in his interpretation of Mrs. Watson's earlier subtle signals. Oh, was he right. He wiped his forehead and turned to admire his wife's beautiful curves highlighted sharply by the moonlight pouring through the window. He looked at her face and she flashed him her most brilliant smile that was reserved only for him.

He moved closer to her and draped an arm around her waist. She placed hers on his chest making him melt inside.

As she slowly drifted into sleep he allowed his mind to marvel. In moments like this he just couldn't believe his own luck. Just a year ago he was a shadow of a man and now not only did he have his beloved wife who saved him when no one else could but he also had his dearest friend back, the man who had caused him so much pain and joy. The two people who were his entire world.

With those warm thoughts swirling lazily in his head he soon joined his wife in the land of dreams.

Neither John or Mary were aware of the presence of a man standing before their flat and fiddling with the lock. They didn't hear the sound of it finally clicking or the creak of the door being opened. They also didn't hear the soft footsteps that slowly approached their bedroom. Only when the bedroom door was abruptly yanked open and the lights switched on the pair on the bed finally woke up.

Well, that was probably an understatement as both husband and wife promptly sat up, tangling themselves in the sheets and shrieking loudly. But as soon as they realised who the intruder was at least one of them calmed down.

"Goddamn it, Sherlock." Mary's voice was creaky from sleep but only slightly laced with annoyance. She lazily covered herself with her duvet, ran a hand through her short hair and collapsed back on the bed.

"What's so important?", she breathed shielding her eyes from the light with her arm. Sherlock tipped his head to her in greeting.

John's reaction however was not even remotely close to Mary's placid one. He was fuming and only the fact that that he didn't have any clothes on stopped him from leaping out his bed and kicking the obnoxious (dearest!) detective out.

"What the hell, Sherlock?! What do you think you're doing here?", the doctor growled, glaring daggers at Holmes but the effect was not very impressive since John's eyes were still squinted from the brutal change of light.

"Get dressed, we are going to Trafalgar Square." Just like that. Seriously, this man.

"We're...no, we are not. What the hell were you thinking?! It's the middle of the night!"

Sherlock huffed impatiently. John could be so irritatingly stubborn. All three of them were fully aware that the doctor was going to budge anyway so spending time on an argument was really rather pointless. But John was John so it was inevitable. The lanky detective inwardly groaned at the upcoming stream of profanities under his address but he knew he was going to win.

"I need assistance. Who was I supposed to go to?" he said casually, shrugging as he did so.

John frowned at him, still combative. Sherlock was often obnoxious but this was just absurd. Even though the doctor was certain it was a losing battle we wasn't about to go down easy.

"Couldn't you call? Or at least, I don't know, make some noise? Did you have to sneak in here like a goddamned ninja?" he blurted out indignantly.

"You wouldn't have picked up your phone since you were clearly occupied." John's jaw clenched. "And I most certainly did not sneak. Why would I do that?" The tease in Sherlock's voice was blatantly obvious.

As the two men engaged in their usual banter Mary felt it was the time to interfere. She wanted to sleep and decided to make things quicker. There was no way her husband was going to decline his friend's 'request' but she was well used to it. And she knew that no matter what John said, he enjoyed it.

"Honestly, you fight like ten year olds. Get out of here and let me sleep." she rasped, her arm still on her face.

John looked at her incredulously. Great, now she was siding with Sherlock, leaving _him_ completely vulnerable and finally sealing his fate. Shaking his head in disbelief he slowly started to get up. These two knew him so well that sometimes they knew his decision even before he did. It was kind of worrisome, but only a little bit.

Trying to ignore the triumphant glint in his friend's eyes as well as the poorly concealed smirk of his wife he draped himself in the sheets, got to his feet and ushered Sherlock out of the room saying that he had to get dressed. The other man was already certain of his victory so he didn't protest.

John slammed the door behind him, grabbed his clothes and turned to Mary. Trying to express that he was still displeased with the turn of events he spoke.

"You could have at least pretended to be angry, you know."

"Oh come on, you would have agreed anyway." she said lightly, sending him a sweet smile. "And I could really use some sleep."

He chuckled despite himself. How could he not love her? The woman who was not bothered by the fact that her husband's friend had broken into their flat and basically dragged said husband out of the bed, providing no explanation whatsoever. The woman who valued the inseparable bond that linked the two men as much they did. He couldn't really imagine anyone else put up with that.

John quickly shrugged his clothes on and leaned over the bed to quickly peck Mary on the lips, his mood already lightened. When he moved away she spoke again.

"Don't go too hard on him, you know what he's like. Have fun, dear."

'Sure I do know.', he thought. And the truth was that he didn't mind any more. He had stopped minding a long time ago.

Having turned the lights off he bid his wife goodbye and silently closed the door.

That moment he switched from mode: husband to mode: detective and was soon ready to follow Sherlock into the night and face the thrill of mystery it carried.

* * *

Just a little bit of ridiculous fluff. Why not?

I'd love to see your opinions!


	3. Cold but nice

A slightly longer chapter this time :)

Thank you Benfan, Isayan and nowsusieq for following and commenting and you cajungirlkye, GuardieGirl and h1gzt for following as well! It means a lot to me.

Anyone who reads this stuff, enjoy! And drop a line if you feel like it :D

I don't own 'Sherlock'.

* * *

During the cab ride John tried to get anything out of the detective but he was dismissed with short replies consisting of claims that there wasn't time to ask Lestrade about details. The doctor found it suspicious but didn't press the matter, figuring he could wait.

When they arrived on Trafalgar Square there was already a quite big crowd of onlookers gathered around the police tapes. It was a bit surprising given the time and frigid weather. As Sherlock and John made their way through, thin layer of snow dissolving under their feet, excited whispers could be heard from the group.

"Oh, it's Sherlock!"

"And Watson is with him!"

"Do you think it will be in the papers?" These and other similar murmurs resounded in the frosty air.

The two men quickly passed under the tape. Even though they were used to being treated like celebrities it wasn't something either of them enjoyed too much. It was nice to be appreciated be people (at least for the doctor) but lately things have gotten a bit out of hand. Sherlock pretended he didn't care but it actually irked him and John felt like he was a specimen in a zoo. But that was the price for playing the key role in the biggest investigations in the country. Oh, and also for returning from the dead.

However there were urgent matters at hand and any personal issues had to be cast aside. With John on his side Sherlock confidently strutted towards Lestrade who was facing the body on the ground.

"So, what do we have here?" Sherlock said, skipping the niceties as usual.

The DI turned to face the approaching duo. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw the doctor.

"Oh, hello John. How did he manage to drag you here on this ungodly hour?"

John shrugged and then shivered from the cold.

"I have no idea. I'm starting to think I'm still asleep." John decided to skip the fact that Sherlock invaded his flat by shamelessly breaking into it.

Greg just shook his head and turned to the young detective who was already growing impatient and glaring at the DI expectantly, demandingly even. Lestrade chose not to ask more questions and moved on to the case.

"Right, well. We have a white female, age 28, killed by a single blow in the back of her head. Her name is Jessica Huntington, she has all of her documents. She was found by these guys." he said pointing to the whispering crowd. "They were..."

"Yes, great, but why did you call me? Surely there must have been something you weren't able to wrap your head around, which is I am here." Sherlock interrupted him.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, wondering briefly why Holmes hadn't asked for details when he phoned him in the first place. He blamed it on the hyperactive man's liking to annoy others and resumed speaking.

"Well, the riddle is that there were no footprints in the snow around the body. Except for the victim's and the two lads' that came over to check what's wrong. They're being questioned as we speak but they are too plastered to be useful."

When he mentioned the young boys both Sherlock and John turned their heads to look at them.

"So you don't think..." John started.

"No, trust me, they are barely standing. Besides there are other witnesses who confirmed that there were no footprints." Lestrade answered quickly.

Sherlock said nothing, just crouched next to the body and studied it carefully inch by inch. He fished his magnifying glass out of his pocket to observe the traces that only he could see and John and Greg watched him in silence. After a moment the young man's head shot up and his bright eyes scanned the surroundings of the body.

"The coroner excluded the possibility of death as a result of an accidental ice slip, I suppose." Greg opened his mouth to confirm but Sherlock continued, not waiting for a reply. "And the witnesses claim there were no footprints..."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of his sentence and cast a quick look at John. The short man had his arms folded on his chest and was eyeing him accusingly.

Damn. Was it really that obvious?

Clearing his throat, Holmes looked back at the body and attempting to sound casual, he said:

"John, take a look, would you?" His voice was perfectly innocent.

It didn't fool the doctor for a second. If Sherlock wanted to play games John was going to give him a lesson. Now might not have been the best time but screw it.

With a neutral expression John nodded and crouched next to the victim's smashed head. He couldn't help a slight smirk (really, who smirks while sitting next to a body) when he noticed that Sherlock was observing him with a trace of uncertainty. 'Serves you right you obnoxious prat.' John thought.' I'm never going to have children. Oh wait, I already do!' He took a deep breath and started speaking.

"Like Greg said, the obvious cause of death is a blow to the head, the occiput to be exact. Probably inflicted with a big, heavy blunt object. Whatever it was, she didn't do it herself. Someone...assisted her."

His voice was mild but it held the characteristic tone that Sherlock recognised in an instant. John continued.

"Some things require assistance and other most definitely do not. Do you agree with me Greg?" The addressed man looked and the doctor with wide eyes.

"Yeah...I guess." Lestrade said cautiously, eyes darting from John to Sherlock and back.

John's words obviously had nothing to do with the body. For a moment Greg had no idea what it was about until the realisation dawned on the him like a beam of light and he barely stopped himself from chuckling. Laughing while standing next to a body wouldn't do his opinion any good.

Sherlock quickly got up and turned to Lestrade as if he didn't hear John at all. When he spoke he surprised them both.

"Okay then, I've got all I needed, you can get your men to clean up. I'll call you in the morning. Now I really got to dash." he blurted out, already heading towards the police tapes. Greg was so taken aback that it took his brain a good few seconds to form any words.

"Sherlock, what are you..." he started but a firm voice interrupted him.

"Wait here, I'll be right back." John said distinctly and grumbling under his breath he rushed after the dark form of his friend.

He ran the last few metres and grabbed Sherlock's arm. The other man instinctively tried to yank it out of the doctor's grip but quickly relented, allowing John to turn him so that they were face to face. Ignoring the murmuring of the onlookers and the sounds of photos being taken (honestly, did people really _have to_ do that?) John spoke.

"Where do you think you're going? You haven't finished yet."

"Yes, I have. But if you're willing to stay here then do as you wish." Sherlock's voice didn't betray any sort of emotion but John knew better.

"Come on, don't be ridiculous. You can't blame me for not being happy with the fact that you lied to me. You didn't need assistance at all." he said, trying to keep his voice down. Sherlock snorted, puffing out a cloud of mist.

"Please, do you really think that's why..."

"Given that right after what I said you took off at lightning speed, yes, I do." John said and before he could stop himself he added:

"Sorry, that wasn't necessary. I mean, what I said." Oh great, now he was apologising to the man who was the cause of this preposterous banter. 'You're getting soft, captain', he scolded himself.

Not even hoping that the detective would show remorse John cleared his throat.

"Right, okay. Can we go back now? People are staring." They were.

Sherlock regarded him for a moment and a small smirk crossed his features.

"Actually, I really did finish. I got all the data I needed. I simply wanted to get out here as fast as possible. It's really cold, isn't it?" With that he reached for the tape and passed under it, leaving John dumbfounded.

The doctor shook his head and cursing his own gullibility he spun on his heel to quickly inform Lestrade that Sherlock was not going to say any more at the moment. After spurting a bunch of apologies (now not only to but also _for_ the detective) he followed his friend again. When he caught up with him Sherlock was already getting in his cab, the smirk still present on his face.

And all that John could do was smile back. It seemed impossible for him to stay angry with that git of a genius no matter how much the man deserved it. Sherlock could enrage and discourage many people in a matter of minutes, seconds but John had already forgiven him so much that no trivial banter could ever truly matter. Sighing in defeat he spoke to his friend quietly.

"If you wanted company you could have just asked." His warm smile chased away a bit of the night's cold.

Sherlock looked through the windshield, still smiling mischievously.

"Goodnight, John." he said smoothly.

Then he gave the cabbie his address and soon the black car drove away into the night and John almost laughed at his own last words. Sherlock Holmes asking for company. Like that was ever going to happen.

While the doctor waited for another cab it started snowing again. Small flakes settled on his hair and eyelashes just for a second before dissolving from the warmth. John looked up into the sky, wondering how much longer it would be before something was going to change.

When he finally returned to his wife's side he promptly fell into pleasant, restful sleep.

.

A couple of days after Sherlock had solved the case with the missing footprints which wasn't all that interesting in the end (John agreed it was barely a 6), 221B Baker Street was once more in an inhabitable state, courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. After all these years she still couldn't understand how a boy as smart as her beloved tenant could live in such a disarray but had long ago abandoned any hope of teaching him to keep the flat tidy.

Not that it was much better when John lived there, though. The doctor might have been in the army but he wasn't the tidiest man she had ever seen. His charming wife had certainly taught him some manners. Mrs. Watson was a true gem and Sherlock's landlady adored her.

When the Watsons visited Baker Street that day John welcomed her warmly and after a few minutes of affable chatting he hurried up the stairs to Sherlock's flat, leaving the two women to themselves.

Mrs Hudson invited Mary to the living room and treated her with tea and biscuits. Mary accepted them gladly and both women soon engaged in conversation.

"So Mary, how are things going? Have you finished that project you've told me about?" the older lady asked and sipped her tea.

Mrs. Watson beamed immediately, the hand holding her cup frozen halfway to her face.

"Oh yes, I signed the last papers 3 days ago and it's officially sold! It was quite a challenge but totally worth the effort. It came out great, everyone did a terrific job." she said happily, almost spilling her tea.

"That's great! Good you finally have that behind you."

After they finished talking about Mary's project, Mrs. Hudson became serious. She didn't want to be nosy but felt the need to ask.

"And what about that policy? I hope everything is sorted now." she said uncertainly.

"Yes, yes...I mean no, we will sign the final agreement in two days." Mary said dismissively and picked a biscuit from the flowery tray. "There's no need to worry."

Mrs Hudson nodded with satisfaction. She remembered that Mary complained about how sluggish the insurance company's workers were and how you couldn't trust anyone you give your money to these days. Mary's pleased voice resounded in the room, giving a final confirmation that all was well.

"Oh Martha, I love you pastries. None of that shop stuff could compare." she said dreamily with a blissful expression on her face. Mrs Hudson tittered.

"Thank you dear. You and John can take some if you want to, Sherlock barely eats and I can't deal with them on my own."

Mary chuckled and gladly accepted the biscuits, she knew that John loved them too. Some time later the doctor came back and the pair soon left Baker Street, thanking the charming landlady for her hospitality and the delicious treats.

.

A week and a half later John Watson as well as many other members of the surgery staff was starting to prepare to leave his workplace and go home. He only had a few more patients to attend to, nothing he couldn't handle. While he waited for another sick fellow to enter his office a petite girl slipped inside with a steaming cup in her hand. She merrily walked over to his desk and placed the cup on it.

"There as requested, doctor. Milk, no sugar." She chirped and John flashed her a grateful smile. He promptly placed his hands around the cup, letting the heat penetrate his fingers.

"Thank you Casey, you're an angel! I'm sorry to use you like that, I didn't have time to..."

"It's nothing John, really. Another Ice Age has started, we need to help each other or we will extinct like dinosaurs. Though, um, that's not what got them. You get my point." She waved her hand dismissively and headed to the door, her long curls bouncing as she walked. She smiled at him radiantly and then left to take care of some paperwork.

Chuckling, John leaned over the cup and inhaled the fragrant steam. A few sips of the hot beverage roused him a bit and sooner than he thought he would he was ready to leave. He bid his co-workers goodbye and exited the building. One of his colleagues, Kate, was standing in front of the surgery building, shivering. She was apparently waiting for a cab.

John thought of taking a cab as well but when he looked up he immediately let go of that idea. The sky looked particularly beautiful – there was not a single cloud and thousands of stars flickered on the firmament, various constellation easily readable. And it wasn't even that cold.

Convenience be damned.

He readjusted his scarf and stuffed his glowed hands in his pockets. He wished Kate a good night and briskly walked down the road. It usually took him about 20 minutes to get home on feet so he had plenty of time to admire the view above. Streets were almost empty so there was no need to worry about vehicles and the cool air was pleasantly refreshing.

John inhaled deeply and stopped for a moment to observe an especially spectacular group of stars. And just like so many other people who let themselves be enchanted by the glamorous lights the doctor just stood there with his head retrorse, pondering whether the human race was ever going to discover what mysteries were concealed by those distant flickers. He wanted to believe that it was possible but he didn't really fool himself.

He thought that Mary would enjoy the sight as well. She had a soul of an artist and was very fond of nature's subtle beauty. Heck, even Sherlock would like it. No one could remain indifferent in the face of such wonders.

John finally started walking again and after ten more minutes he entered the building where he and Mary lived.

When he approached the flat he immediately knew something was not right.

* * *

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	4. A start

_And here's another one!_

_Thank you Benfan and Teshka for your comments, every comment makes me happy ;) Also thank you rumbleroar-redvines for favouriting and you, Hobbit-Sized Writer for following, I am most grateful!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

His heartbeat quickened as he reached for the doorknob and turned it. The door was open. That wasn't something he would usually worry about, their door was often left unlocked. But his instinct, sharpened during the years he had spent in the army told him that it was not just a result of forgetfulness.

Filled with apprehension John stepped inside his apartment. One quick look aound it was enough to cause a wave of fear descended upon him. The doctor didn't notice any intruders but that wasn't soothing in the slightest for there were obvious signs of a struggle. The table had been moved, as well as one of the armchairs. The table cloth and a few sheets of paper laid scattered on the floor. John swallowed with difficulty and called out for his wife.

"Mary? Are you in here? Answer me!" No answer came.

Heart fluttering in his chest like a caged bird, he began checking every room at top speed. First he peeked into the kitchen and his wife's workroom but found nothing. With panic spreading in his body like a rapidly progressing illness he tried calling Mary again, to no avail. Finally he reached the bedroom. Terrified of what could await him there, he opened the door.

And his entire world came into an abrupt halt.

For a second he was certain that he was hallucinating because what he saw simply couldn't be true. But almost immediately the reality crashed on him like a speeding train, nearly knocking him off his feet.

There, on the carpeted floor next to their bed his wife was lying in a pool of blood. Her entire body was covered with it. Her head was covered with a bag.

John felt as if all of his insides were suddenly sucked out of him, his knees buckled and he collapsed by her side. In that moment everything else ceased to exist, all that remained was her limp, bloodied form and the desperate hope that he didn't come too late. Only half aware of what was happening he yelled her name, not recognising his own voice.

"Mary! Mary...oh God...please, no!"

He frantically fumbled for her wrist, at the same time reaching for the bag. He didn't even allow the thought of not finding a pulse to form in his head. It had to be a nightmare, a terrible dream...

Suddenly Mary jerked and blindly swung her arms at him, scratching his forearms. He let out a sob of relief and delicately clasped her shoulders, not even noticing the scratches her nails left on him.

"It's okay honey, it's me! You're safe now, I promise!" He soothed her creakily, his eyes hazing with tears.

He started stroking her short, blonde hair gently, whispering to her as he did so.

"You are going be alright, you are going to be alright... Just stay with me, okay? Don't close your eyes, you need to stay awake..." Forcing himself to regain a bit of control, he tried to check her pulse again.

Breath rasped and heavy, Mary stared at him pleadingly with wide, scared eyes. John's insides writhed convulsively and he silently prayed that he would never have to see that look on her face again, it was agonising. But as long as she was alive he could take anything. All that mattered was making sure she was going to be alright. She had to be.

His hands hovered over the numerous deep wounds that covered her chest, arms and legs. She had been brutally attacked by someone but all that John could think at the moment was doing whatever it took to keep her alive and lessen her pain. He barely stopped himself from taking her in his arms but he knew that could worsen the state of the injuries. If he wanted to help her he needed to keep a straight head.

He took two deep breaths to collect himself and took her hands in his own.

"I'll be right back, Mary. Just stay awake, please." he whispered shakily and promptly sprang to his feet.

Fighting the terror that threatened to engulf him completely he leapt toward his medical bag. The door to the flat was still open and at the top of his lungs he yelled:

"Help! Somebody call an ambulance!" His oddly changed voice reverberated in the hallway. He knew that it was one of the worst methods of getting help, for when people heard 'someone' they most often didn't feel obliged to do anything but his neighbours were intelligent enough to treat such alarms seriously.

His assumption was confirmed literally two seconds later when a young, frightened man ran into the flat. The doctor didn't recognise him but it didn't matter.

"What happened, sir? I just heard you scream, what is wrong?" the man blurted out but before he could say anything more John interrupted him, still sounding alien to himself.

"My wife is wounded, call 911 and tell them to send an ambulance right away!"

Saying these words made John feel like he was playing in a bad movie, it was all just too unreal. It simply couldn't be possible...

He shook his head to collect himself and, not wanting to waste any more time he spun around and ran back into the bedroom.

The young man who was left in the living room reached for his phone and with shaking fingers he dialled the number. Before anyone picked up, he stole a quick glance through the bedroom door and froze on the spot, utterly aghast with what he saw. After what seemed like eternity but was in fact about three seconds, a calm voice of a dispatcher resounded in the receiver. Before the man could say anything he heard a panicked scream that was followed by a stream of unintelligible words and he unconsciously moved the phone away from his ear but quickly gathered himself and put it back.

"Hello?! I need an ambulance right know, my neighbour's wife has been attacked!" he yelled with a constricted throat.

It wasn't even ten minutes before the ambulance arrived with a police car in tail. But if anyone asked John how long did it take for the help to finally get there he would swear that it was at least half an hour. This is how strangely human brain works when subjected to such distress.

The paramedics quickly made their way into the bedroom and the distressed doctor was moved away gently. He didn't protest, didn't even say a word. He sat limply on the floor and, still incredulous, watched the medics strap his dear wife to the stretcher. Only when one of them shook his shoulder he more or less returned to reality.

"Sir, are you alright? Were you injured?" The medic's placid voice was strangely distant when he addressed John while eyeing the short man carefully.

John looked at him, then at himself and immediately felt sick. His hands and entire coat were covered in blood. His face too, probably. It must have happened when he was resuscitating Mary after she had stopped breathing. The thought made him dizzy but he gathered himself and managed a weak reply.

"N-no...it's hers." He absently gestured to the blood with his hand. The medic nodded and helped him get up.

"You are a doctor sir, right?" John nodded silently.

"Okay. We're going to take your wife to St Andrews Hospital and stabilise her. We can't let you ride inside the ambulance but one of the policemen is going to take you to the hospital." After a few seconds the man added:

"You did well, sir. She's in good hands now."

John didn't say anything, only nodded again. The paramedic joined his colleagues and they prepared to carry the stretcher out of the flat. The doctor fearfully watched as his wife's mutilated body was lifted and he followed the group on wobbly legs. Everything around him melted into a chaotic, shapeless mass without a meaning. He barely noticed the officer who placed a hand on his shoulder. John said something absently, not caring what his words were.

It was inconceivable how just half an hour earlier the doctor was dreamily admiring the vastness of the universe and now his world was reduced only to one, desperate hope that the heart he cherished so much would not stop beating.

The ambulance sped away with blazing sirens and was soon followed by the police car with an uniformed officer and John inside.

.

At the same time Sherlock Holmes was lazily plucking at the strings of his precious violin. He briefly considered taking up finishing one of his latest compositions but he discarded that idea as he wasn't really in the mood for it. He sighed dramatically and put the instrument away. Perhaps the microscope, then.

Sherlock dragged himself off the couch and headed towards the kitchen where all of his science equipment was. He set up everything he needed and soon immersed himself in a study of a group of fascinating fungi samples. He was so focused that he heard the phone after it rang for the third time. Sherlock reluctantly tore his quicksilver eyes from the experiment and picked up. The fungi were great, but there was nothing that could thrill him like a case. If it was more than a 7, naturally.

Lestrade's voice was slightly muffled by the blowing wind but from what Sherlock managed to understand the case could indeed prove to be interesting. He put his coat and scarf on in record time and ten seconds later he stormed out of the flat.

While the detective travelled comfortably through the cold night, St Andrews hospital was once again a scene of a drama.

John Watson was pacing restlessly in the hallway, completely oblivious to the people around him who tried their best not to stare at the doctor. The policeman who brought him to the hospital had already given up any attempts of comforting the man, seeing that it had no effect. So he just let him pace.

John was fighting his own body that threatened to refuse cooperation, he almost started hyperventilating but stopped himself just in time. Forcing his lungs to work properly he slowly inhaled and exhaled a couple of times. His entire body was trembling, his thoughts declined to be gathered.

'This can't be happening, it just can't...' he thought pleadingly. Perhaps he even said that out loud.

But it _was_ happening and all he could do was wait for information. Mary was in surgery for about 20 minutes, no one came out to tell him anything yet and it nearly drove him insane.

What if they were too late? What if the damage was too grave? What if she...

No. He crushed the horrible thought mercilessly. Mary was tough, she was going to fine, there was no other option.

And finally the door to the operating room opened, a surgeon in a bloodied apron emerged and approached John. It only took one glance at his face to know the truth. But even though John was a skilled man of medicine himself and he could recognise that expression better than most people, he refused to believe what it meant until the surgeon spoke.

"Sir, your wife was very seriously injured. She's lost a lot of blood and many of her internal organs were severely damaged. We tried to stabilise her but the damage was...too excessive." The surgeon's voice was mild and soft but his next words hit John like a sledgehammer.

"I'm sorry sir, but we couldn't save your wife. She didn't make it."

Amazing, how two small sentences could turn an entire world into ruin. That's what happened with John's world in that moment. Everything that was a meaningless mass before suddenly solidified for a millisecond only to shatter into millions of sharp splinters that tore through him ripping him apart, reaching the very core of his heart. He felt as if he was crumbling himself, disintegrating into a pathetic pile of brittle shards.

Dazzled by the dreadful words he stumbled backwards and his back hit the wall.

'No. No. It can't be true...please, don't let it be true...'

He grabbed the nearest chair tightly to stop himself from slumping down the wall. The doctor who gave him the news waited patiently and the police officer stood nearby, not certain of what to do. John hid his face in his hands to cut away from everything.

She was gone. The woman he loved most in the world was dead. He couldn't understand how he was still standing. His Mary was gone.

His brain writhed in agony, trying to deal with the horrendous blow, his heart hammered wildly in his chest, threatening to burst any moment. He let out a choked sob and grabbed his hair in despair. Hot tears streamed down his face, burning his cheeks. His lungs constricted impossibly and every intake burned his throat like acid.

How...could this happen? It was impossible, it couldn't have happened to Mary...Why has it come to this?! His mind was trying to understand but he was in a shock too deep to comprehend anything.

From very far away came the voice of the surgeon and John had a hard time processing his words.

"Perhaps you should sit down for a moment, sir. Do you need some water?" the man offered. John shook his head, feeling nauseous.

Everything was so surreal that he still had the tiniest bit of hope that it was all just a terrible hallucination... But no matter how much he wanted to believe it he knew that this nightmare was his reality. With a tremendous effort he gathered himself, cleared his throat with difficulty and creaked:

"No, no...I have to see her. Please, I have to..."

"Yes, of course sir. Follow me." The surgeon then gently led John to the operating room. The short doctor dragged his feet cautiously, feeling as if he forgot how to use them properly. The floor seemed to be swaying, waiting for him to make one false step. None of this made any sense...Mary couldn't have died just like that, it was impossible...

When they reached the door and John saw his wife's prone form on the bed it all dawned on him with a sense of finality that made him falter. He somehow managed to get to her side and leaned over her slowly, feeling as if he would never be able to straighten up again. The last glimmer of a desperate, foolish hope that she was fine dissipated into nothingness when he touched her arm which was already growing cold. He gingerly took her face in his hands, his own face twisted in a paroxysm of boundless despair.

Then he finally broke down completely. He didn't even notice when he collapsed on his knees. Pained sobs clawed out of his throat and he heavily rested his forehead on her shoulder. One hand absently running through her hair and the other clutching at her shirt he helplessly subjected to violent tremors that shook his body as fresh tears moistened the congealed blood on Mary's shoulder. Unable to think anymore, he just shakily whispered to the limp form of his wife.

"Mary...Oh G-god..." The silent pleas of the freshly widowed man drowned in the hospital's bustle.

* * *

_That was...predictable, I suppose. But I really felt some build-up for this scene was necessary._

_What do you think? I'd love to know your opinions, reviews and feedback of any sort are a fantastic encouragement! Especially for someone as unexperienced as me. Pretty please?_


	5. What now?

_This chapter is rather slow and I guess my Sherlock might not be too convincing but I really tried and couldn't come up with anything better. I hope it will be acceptable._

_Again, thank you all for feedback! You, Benfan, Isayan and Irina for commenting and you, Crazyperson8 for favouriting, you're all fantastic! I'm truly flattered ;) As for your question, Irina...mhhhm, I belive it is there, somewhere but it's a rather cruel one^^' Also, thanks everyone who reads this stuff!_

_Enjoy the next chapter, folks!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

Sherlock was disappointed. What seemed like an interesting case on the phone turned out to be rather dull and obvious in reality. The young detective knew it before he even approached the body. Displeased with the waste of time he could spend on his fungi study, he decided to punish the DI by keeping him in the dark longer than usual.

Finally he crouched next to the body and after a particularly slow observation process and a few satisfying looks of annoyance from Lestrade, Sherlock started talking.

And then came the phone call.

Sherlock Holmes didn't not like being interrupted when he was working but when he saw John's name on the screen he quickly let go of the idea of dismissing the call. The case was not even a curious one so he wasn't all that much annoyed with the disturbance. Which did not mean he couldn't use his typical, terse 'greeting' and furrow his brows to add some drama.

"What?" Sherlock spat but when he heard the voice on the other side he immediately tensed. That voice did not belong to John Watson.

"Hello, are you Sherlock Holmes?" A policeman. Sherlock's heartbeat quickened.

"Listen, there was an accident." the man said quickly, not waiting for a confirmation of Sherlock's identity. The detective felt a dead weight drop in his stomach.

"Your friend's wife was very seriously injured and, um... I'm afraid she did not survive. Mr. Watson asked me to call you. We're at...at St Andrews Hospital, Melbourne Avenue 11. How long will it take you to get here?" the officer blurted out but his voice was steady.

How was that possible, Sherlock did not know. How could anyone be calm when he, the aloof detective himself felt as if he was hit by a truck that sent his mind into a sudden turmoil and all of that was caused by so few words.

But at least...at least it wasn't John.

Ignoring the look on Lestrade's face Sherlock tersely informed the officer that he will be there in fifteen minutes. Then without another word he disconnected the call and started walking toward the street. His brilliant and usually perfectly orderly brain could hardly process the brutality of what he had just heard. How could it be? What must have happened? It was all so sudden that he found it very difficult to think properly. Forcing his thoughts to organise, he hailed a cab.

When the cab sped away, driver aghast with Sherlock's anxious behaviour, the detective was trying to calm his rapidly beating heart but it refused to be contained. Darkness swirled in his head, clouding his vision. He had to get to John as soon as possible but it could never be soon enough because the doctor's wife was already gone...

A stream of possibilities flew through Sherlock's head but nothing made much sense. His stomach twisted into a knot when he thought about the state John must be in. 'What am I supposed to do when I get there?' he asked himself and painfully realised he had no idea.

When they finally arrived at St Andrews Sherlock threw a few random bills at the cabbie and promptly jumped out. A few moments later he stopped in the door of the operating room and was met with a heart-wrenching sight.

John was sitting on a small stool, looking as if he was about to collapse on himself any moment. His elbows were rested on his knees, face hidden in his hands. He was a picture of misery. The officer who talked with Sherlock was standing beside him, trying to offer words of comfort and obviously failing miserably. The bed was empty.

The detective slowly walked over to the two men. The policeman nodded to him and quickly left them alone. Maybe it was not the best of ideas since Sherlock was at complete loss of what to do.

Uncertain, he eyed John for a moment in silence. The doctor didn't even raise his head. From the lack of better ideas Sherlock kneeled in front of John and gently shook his shoulder. It was trembling.

"John? John." he started lamely. All the logic seemed to have dissipated from his brain.

The doctor uncovered his red and swollen face that was still twisted in pain and he blinked a few times before his eyes finally focused.

"Sh-Sherlock...Oh God. She's...she's..." he rasped between shallow intakes of air.

"I know, John. I'm sorry." Sherlock said quickly, feeling very uneasy.

What else was he supposed to say? He really was sorry. Mary was not only his friend's wife, she was a person he had come to greatly value as well. But Sherlock knew that words could do much to comfort the doctor at the moment.

John bowed his head limply and it made something in Sherlock's chest twist painfully. He was clueless.

"What can I do for you?" The deep baritone was unusually quiet.

John couldn't force a word out and the two men remained in their positions for a moment, the silence interrupted only by the doctor's shallow breathing. Finally Sherlock realised then that if he was to be of any use, he had to come up with something on his own.

He delicately grabbed the doctor's arms and John didn't try to move away. Good, that was a start. Sherlock then slowly and with caution pulled him upward. It was strange how frail John felt under his touch, as if he could literally shatter any moment. When they both straightened up Sherlock spoke again.

"John, look at me. Look at me."

John lifted his head with an effort and his reddened eyes locked with the detective's.

"Listen, I know it's hard but I need you to focus. Take a deep breath for me, alright?" Sherlock's voice was commanding but soft.

John shut his eyes tightly and gave a short nod. To the younger man's satisfaction he took a couple of shaky but proper breaths. Sherlock couldn't however anticipate the doctor's next reaction. John suddenly slumped forward, his forehead hit the detective's chest and his hands clasped spasmodically on the long coat's front.

John remained silent as tremors took over his body. Sherlock was at first so taken aback that his mind went blank but he quickly collected himself and did the only thing that was appropriate though it felt rather strange to him, even in those circumstances.

He hesitantly encircled his long arms around John's back. He felt the doctor press against him tightly and much to his own surprise Sherlock found himself tightening the embrace. He didn't really know why but it felt...somehow natural. Come to think of it, it was actually logical.

They stood like that, quietly, for a few moments.

When they finally separated John had already calmed down considerably. Sherlock 'recovered' from the embrace, left John for a moment and stepped out of the room to get answers from the officer who was waiting outside.

"What happened?" he demanded.

The policeman promptly started talking. He knew of Holmes' extraordinary talent, admired it and wanted to be as useful as possible.

"Apparently someone attacked her. She was...stabbed. Many times. Doctor Watson found her in their flat. She was alive, but..."

Sherlock was not listening to him anymore. Even though he knew that there was a rather slim chance Mary's death was an accident (given the policeman calling him), now that he actually heard that it was a murder, sorrow was immediately flooded with rage. He furiously dialled Lestade's number and informed him about everything, feeling the wild need to leap straight into action.

A few plans already formed in his head when he stopped himself. There was no way he could leave John right now... But knowing that time could be of great importance he decided that a statement had to be given as soon as possible. Casting emotions aside he returned to the room where he'd left John. Not wanting to shock the doctor further he placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke to him gently but firmly.

"John, the Yard will need you to tell them everything. Do you think you can do that?"

John looked at him and a disconcerting variety of emotions flashed through his face so fast that Sherlock couldn't identify them all. After a brief consideration the doctor nodded shortly. He was still in a state of shock but now that he fully realised that there was someone responsible he wanted to do something - anything to help. He chased away the numbness that threatened to claim him. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder briefly.

"Good. Let's go." The detective prompted.

Not trusting his own voice John just took one more deep breath and followed Sherlock out of the hospital.

.

The next twenty four hours were a nightmare.

Hundreds of questions, hours of asking about the tiniest details. Lestrade did his best to make everything as painless as possible for John but since it was not originally his case there was only so much he could do. At least the Detective Inspector who took the case was tolerant and let his older colleague assist him. However he did not want to let Sherlock in claiming that there was no need to involve him. Even after he received a phone call from the British Government in person he didn't relent.

In spite of Greg's efforts there were a few moments when John nearly broke down. Sherlock's presence helped him calm down enough to continue talking but when they finally left the Yard the doctor was so exhausted from a constant struggle with his emotions that he nearly fell asleep in the taxi.

He couldn't and did not want go back to his and Mary's flat since it was full of police technicians, so Sherlock easily convinced him to come to Baker Street. When they arrived there it was slowly starting to become light.

At that point John was numb. He didn't notice Mrs Hudson who hurriedly stepped out her flat, hair unruly from sleep. Sherlock said something to her but John didn't hear it. Closely followed by his friend he mechanically walked up the stairs to the flat and promptly dropped on the couch. He didn't want to think anymore because thinking meant reliving every agonising second of the previous night. He just couldn't take it. He was so, so tired...

Before he even knew it he fell into a restless sleep.

Sherlock watched as John collapsed on the couch and for a moment he wanted to make him get up and go upstairs but thought better of it. The doctor needed as much rest as he could get and even though sleeping on the couch meant a sore neck, Sherlock did not disturb him.

He let out a heavy sigh and sat in his armchair. After observing John for a couple of minutes the tall man made a decision. He silently went downstairs and turned to his landlady who was waiting for him.

"Mary is dead." he said directly.

Mrs Hudson gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. A bit too late Sherlock realised that saying it straight from the shoulder was, to put lightly, insensitive. But was there any way of making such a message sound less dreadful?

"W-what? What are you saying? What happened?" the old lady whispered weakly.

Sherlock really wanted to leave but felt it was necessary to give her an explanation.

"She was murdered." He said shortly. His throat burnt strangely.

Mrs. Hudson gasped again and tears glistened in her eyes.

"Oh my God, Sherlock...H-how? Dear Lord, poor Mary...poor John!" she stammered out, shaking visibly.

"I don't know." he lied, figuring that telling the old woman that her friend was stabbed to death was not the best of ideas. He gently grabbed her by the arms.

"I have to go now. Can you promise me to...take care of him when he wakes up?" he said firmly and she looked up at him with surprise.

"Where are you going? You can't leave him now..."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment.

"Promise me." he repeated calmly.

She struggled to regain composure but eventually she gave a small nod. He squeezed her arms lightly and then let go of her. Without another word he stepped out of the building, the long coat billowing behind him.

.

Half an hour later he was arguing with DI Jason Saunders who was leading the case. The man was in his early forties and in great shape. His hair carried no grey traces of his age but his face was lined with deep wrinkles caused by years of frowning and scowling.

Much to Sherlock's irritation Saunders was adamant that he should not partake in the investigation since he was personally linked to the victim's husband. Holmes' insides were boiling but he managed to keep a straight face. More or less. His arguments that he could find the perpetrator faster than anyone else seemed go right over Saunders' head and it was starting to drive Sherlock to the edge. Finally Lestrade interrupted them and pulled the younger man aside.

"Listen, he's right. I know you want to do something but you really should..." he started but Sherlock did not let him finish.

"No, _you_ listen. The best they can do to move forward is to let me go to that flat before they destroy all the evidence." The detective's voice was all but a hiss.

Greg sighed heavily. Sherlock was obviously right but Saunders was very hard to convince to do anything he did not want to do. He wasn't stupid though, so there was a chance of succeeding.

But even though Lestrade knew that Sherlock should be let in he also knew why Jason did not want him there. And it wasn't just because it was too personal. Greg had seen that characteristic look on Saunders' face too many times not to recognise it, but after what they'd heard he couldn't really blame him. Had the case concerned anyone else Greg himself might have thought the same.

Breaking out of the reverie he turned to Sherlock who was observing him suspiciously. Avoiding the piercing, bright eyes Greg said what he thought would make the other man budge.

"They know what they're doing. And John is going to need you. He must be prepared for further questioning." he said firmly.

Sherlock scowled, huffed and was about to say that he told his landlady to look after the doctor so that he could do the police's work but he stopped himself. With a surprise he realised that Lestrade was right. Even though he would be of much better use collecting data on the crime scene, Sherlock relented. John was really going to need him.

He nodded shortly and left soon. During the cab ride home he wondered briefly what could Lestrade's strange expression mean. It was obvious that when he told Sherlock to go back something else was on his mind that he chose not share but the young detective couldn't understand what it meant. That was going to change soon.

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed it. I'm going to eternally pester you for comments, they really mean a lot to me, every single one! A word, maybe two then? ;) _


	6. It's just formality

_Hello again!_

_Thank you Isayan and Benfan for leaving comments, you surely know how to spoil me ;) Also thank you niki01 for following(dzięki raz jeszcze) and you kotane for following and favouriting! I'm so very grateful._

_As for this chapter...um. It's probably rather boring, don't tell me I didn't warn you :D Like I said before, this story is not an actiony one but things will get more interesting, I promise (or rather hope). Oh, you should also know that I stole a quote from Doyle and rearranged it a bit.  
_

_Enjoy!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock.'_

* * *

In fact everything was clear just a few hours later when they returned to the Yard. From the moment Saunders with a young constable appeared in the office where Sherlock, John and Lestrade were waiting, Holmes knew what the issue was but before he could say anything Greg ushered him out of the room. Sherlock turned to the DI with resentment.

"Are you serious? Does this idiot really think..."

"Not yet, he's just suspicious. But he doesn't know John, he only saw him yesterday. It's just...you have to admit that it was kind of strange." Greg said quickly, not looking at him. Sherlock snorted disdainfully.

"Honestly, you've been working here for like a hundred years and you're telling me this? Everyone reacts differently, even you should know that!" the young man snarled and Lestrade raised his hand placatingly.

"_I know_. But Saunders has his reasons, people barely ever reacted like John. And when they did...well, you know."

Sherlock was indignant. John's behaviour in the Yard the previous night might have seemed odd to a common observer but policemen definitely had no right to judge anyone merely by a non-standard reaction. Stupidity was not an excuse for jumping to conclusions like prejudiced yokels.

True, Sherlock was quite surprised himself when John entered the Yard with a raised head, clenched jaw and a determined look on his face but that was just the man's military trained way of dealing with extreme emotions. The doctor remained calm during the questioning and there were only a few times when he needed a moment to collect himself. Sherlock was pleased to see John in control and missed the occasional suspicious looks that Saunders and his officers cast his friend's way.

But irritation passed quickly. Sherlock despised how schematically the police worked but knew that nothing could be done about the fact the spouse was always the first suspect. It didn't matter, the collected evidence was most certainly going to clear John of all suspicions. Besides, Sherlock was not going to idly stand and watch.

Still, he couldn't shake away the unpleasant thought of how hard it was going to be for John to be even temporarily suspected.

On the other side of the door John was experiencing exactly what the detective thought he would. After a few minutes of being questioned the doctor knew that he had already become a potential suspect and the very thought made him nauseous. Coupled with the overwhelming grief, it was almost too much to bear.

With a tremendous effort he slipped his military mask back on.

"Do you think..." he started and then swallowed, burning his dry throat. "Do you think I had something to do with it?"

The DI's face betrayed nothing.

"Sir, I'm merely trying to collect all the information that could help us find the culprit. Just tell me everything you know, okay?"

The tone of Saunders' voice was as neutral as his expression but he did not answer John's question. Heavy silence hung between them for a moment and then the policeman started asking again.

"So tell me one more time, what did you do when you arrived at your flat and saw that something was wrong? How did you know that someone broke in?"

John gritted his teeth.

"I came in, saw that the table was moved and...there were papers on the floor." he drawled out, barely restraining himself from growling at the stupid man to finally do something useful instead of asking the same things all over again.

"Okay, and then what? You started checking the rooms, correct?"

That any many other questions have been asked, just like they were the night before but now John could feel the scepticism hidden behind every word. He'd learnt to catch subtler signs of distrust during the time he spent working with Sherlock. He really couldn't understand why the police entertained the possibility that he had murdered his own wife, but his mind was in too much of a disarray to look at things from a standpoint different than just his own, at least for now.

After what seemed like an eternity he was allowed to go. DI Saunders had absolutely nothing to charge him with so there was no reason to keep him in the Yard.

As the policeman watched Watson and Holmes leave he really didn't know what to think. He had seen and talked to many freshly widowed men and he knew that every single reaction was different, but the doctor's was suspiciously similar to reactions of those who later turned out to be...guilty.

But it was still too early to say anything, not until all the evidence was examined thoroughly. Saunders cast premonitions away and felt foolish for jumping to conclusions so prematurely. Perhaps John Watson was indeed just an example of an atypical reaction to emotional trauma.

Saunders knew, however, that no matter what the results of the investigation would turn out to be, the case was about to become a public affair of grand proportions. A drama this closely related to Sherlock Holmes' private life simply couldn't be anything else.

.

Later that day, after the agonising phone calls to Mary's mother and stepfather, brother and his own sister everything started to finally dawn on the doctor full forcibly. The last fifteen hours were a grotesque nightmare too chaotic to allow him to focus on anything else but trying to be somewhat useful to the police. Now when he finally had a moment to take a breath, the air around him seemed to turn into toxic, corrosive fumes that burnt his insides with every intake.

He collapsed limply on his old armchair. His brain finally comprehended what happened and the mighty weight of reality crushed him mercilessly as if he was a pitiful insect.

'It is true. It really did happen. It was not a dream. Mary...she's dead...she's dead...dead...'

The horrid word swirled in his head madly, making him dizzy. Despair clamped it's cold fingers on his throat choking him and he just couldn't take it, he wanted to disappear so that he wouldn't have to feel anymore...

Suddenly a strong hand clasped on his arm. A hand that was so familiar, so...solid in the sea of misery he was drowning in that he wanted to hold onto it tightly and never let go. He couldn't muster the strength to move a muscle but he fully trusted that the hand would not let him sink.

Sherlock's deep, vibrant voice tore him out of the darkness' deadly grip.

"John? Come on, get up. Let's get you upstairs."

The doctor fully subjected to his guidance. With unusual gentleness Sherlock led him up the stairs and to his old room. When the detective let go of him John immediately flopped on the bed, not caring about changing his clothes.

Sherlock knew he had to leave the man to himself. A few moments earlier he realised that a breakdown was coming and there was nothing that could stop it. He also knew John's way of dealing with grief and the best thing he could do for the doctor was to let him stay on his own, at least for some time.

Doing it was unexpectedly hard. Sherlock was the kind of person who always avoided situations which involved dealing with people in distress but now he simply couldn't make himself leave the doctor's side. Staying felt like the only possibility, logic and calculation be damned.

He just stood there, suspended between his own battling thoughts. Seeing someone so close to you in so much pain and being unable to lessen it would be enough to move even the hardest of hearts and Sherlock's, in spite of what he claimed, was not all that callous.

He involuntarily leant forward, extended his hand and placed it gingerly on John's arm again. The doctor did not react but Sherlock almost flinched, surprised by his own action. He closed his eyes, squeezed the arm shortly and ordered his mind to take a hold of itself. Finally he let go of John and after one last look at the still form of his friend he left.

John only pretended not to notice Sherlock's hand, he just didn't have the strength to react. The small gesture comforted him a little but sorrow quickly overwhelmed him again, demanding to be released. As much as he appreciated Sherlock's presence, John was thankful that the detective left him alone. That was the only way he could let everything out.

Moments later tears started welling up in his eyes and John Watson started crying.

He cried for his beloved wife whom he'd lost forever, for the painfully short time he had spent with her and everything they were never going to be able to do together. He cried for himself, for once again losing a person he loved so much.

Why did it have to happen? Why couldn't he just be happy, what he done to deserve this? Why, why...

John writhed and twisted in his bed for hours until he was too exhausted to move a muscle. Then he was just lying there, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. The image of his wife was the only thing he could see.

.

Sherlock quietly left the flat right after walking out of John's room and headed straight to St Andrews' Hospital. Technically he _could_ wait till the next day and go there with Lestrade but he didn't really consider that option.

Sneaking in the morgue wasn't much of a problem. Now that he was so recognisable he had to be a lot more careful, but pinching an ID and convincing a young, drowsy pathologist to let him in was still a child's play.

And so Sherlock found himself standing over the body of Mary Watson.

It was...an odd experience. He'd seen countless dead bodies, many in a state of being barely distinguishable as human and was not affected in the slightest. And yet, even though he knew what was laying before him was just an empty shell that no longer was the person he used to know, he couldn't help...feeling.

But sentiment led nowhere, couldn't revive anyone. It only clouded the mind, deterred it from working properly and logically and Sherlock could not allow himself to have even a moment of weakness so he quickly shook it off. He had to be professional.

He started from observing the wounds. There were thirteen...no, fourteen of them. inflicted by a smooth edged blade almost an inch wide. Most likely a simple kitchen knife.

The stabs had been vicious – most of the wounds were surrounded by bruises that were not a result of blood spread under the skin but a contact with a clenched hand. It was the result of driving the knife in up to the handle.

Sherlock envisioned the attack in his head but deducing how exactly things happened without seeing the crime scene was not easy. He knew that for now the chance of sneaking in John's flat was close to none but he figured he could wait. Which did not mean he liked it.

But of course he did make some conclusions. The attack was livid, unprofessional. Just the choice of weapon and varying depths and irregular location of the wounds said that they had been inflicted by an unsteady hand driven by rage. The detective quickly ransacked his memory in search of people who could hold a grudge against the Watsons, Mary herself or him and he did find a few names, but all of those men would most definitely...do a cleaner job.

It didn't take him long to deduce that it was just some impetuous fool who murdered his friend's wife, that John's life was ruined by somebody's stupidity.

.

Two days later things didn't get better.

The press appeared in all its glory. Every since Sherlock's return from the dead and the announcement of his innocence the pair of detectives was even more popular than before. The dramatic story of the struggle between Moriarty and Holmes, an act of ultimate sacrifice and a heartbroken doctor as well the circumstances of the reunion were a hot topic for many weeks. After that almost every case of the brilliant Sherlock Holmes went viral. John's blog suffered from data overload and their e-mails were constantly flooded with messages.

Now reporters went after them everywhere, almost demanding answers and kept unabashedly occupying the door of 221B. Had any of the two men inside been checking their e-mails, they would see that the situation was similar there except the mails were mostly condolences.

And as if there wasn't enough pain already, John had to go through countless 'tests' that required from him the strength he did not have. He had to talk to Mary's parents face to face and seeing his own grief mirrored in the eyes of people who lost their beloved daughter made him break down again. They asked him through tears what happened and he was not able to provide an answer, which hurt.

Accepting condolences was almost just as hard. His sister came to 221b sober and tried her best to comfort him, a few of his friends also dropped by but it did not help. Sherlock was still the one fixed point in that whole madness.

Then there came Molly. Cheeks red and puffy, eyes glassy. She draped her arms weakly around John as soon as she saw him. Her voice was muffled by the doctor's shoulder in which she buried her face.

"I'm so sorry, John. So sorry..." she started with difficulty. "I...I found out yesterday. It's so horrible, I just can't believe it..."

John rubbed her back absently and then a terrible image carved itself in his head. Molly entering the morgue to start a new day at work and finding his wife in one of the fridge lockers.

He felt sick.

His muddled brain then remained him that Mary was not in St Bart's but the picture stayed. John chased away a wave of despair and cleared his throat.

"Shhh. It's okay...it's okay." he whispered.

It wasn't okay. He didn't know if anything could ever be okay again, how could he keep on living without the person he loved so much but he had to try and think straight. There were some urgent matters that needed to be taken care of.

John gently let go of Molly and managed to give her a feeble smile, the first one in three days. It came out more like a grimace but it was something.

Sherlock was observing the whole scene from afar, leaning against a wall. When Molly left, John turned to him. Their gazes locked and in those bright eyes the doctor found all the unspoken words he needed so much.

'I am here. I will do what I can to help you. It will be hard, you know that I will not always do or say the right things, but I will never leave you.' the detective's gaze read openly, all masks discarded in a corner.

John felt a tiny bit of warmth in his chest. He knew that Sherlock would stand by his side no matter what but seeing it so plainly written on the face that usually covered all feelings with indifference was the push he needed to gather himself.

And then, as his head finally cleared just a smidge, an emotion that lay hidden beneath the layers of grief and shock slowly started to resurface.

It was rage. He didn't know how enormous it was just yet but it was just a matter of time until anger and a craving for revenge would win over everything else.

The two men wordlessly parted. Soon Mycroft called again and, as a repayment for being unable to let Sherlock join the investigation he offered to take care of the funeral arrangements. John was surprised and wanted to decline at first but quickly relented. Truth was that help of any kind was very much appreciated.

* * *

_Things will start to go forward in the next chapter, but the progress will be slow. I hope you won't fall asleep while reading this stuff^^'_

_You already know this because I keep nagging you about it, but I love getting comments ;) Be it one liners or full-blown reviews, every single one makes me happy!_ _I'm particularly curious about what you think of the 'no-masks' Sherlock. Was it too fluffy or somewhat acceptable?_


	7. The case moves forward

_A shorter one this time._

_Thank you Isayan and Irina for commenting again and you SHansen for chosing to not only comment but also follow and favourite! TheUltimateBookLover and Wingbat, don't think I forgot about you ;) Thank you so much for following._

_Warning: A bit of swearing in this chapter and also probably the most kitschy line in the entire story._

_Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy it!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

Detective Inspector Jason Saunders was right about one thing.

The case of Mary Watson's murder became a public sensation. It happened even sooner than he expected. It took one day for the goddamn media parasites to find out as well as for the Internet people to start an uproar even though everything was kept very close to the chest. But in the era of facebook, Twitter and camera phones there was no such thing as secrecy.

A few photos of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes in St Andrews leaked 15 hours after the tragedy. At first people treated it like a tasteless joke but when the second morning after the murder many articles similar to each other appeared in the newspapers, all doubts disappeared.

And Saunders was really pissed off.

He hated public affairs, they were always a freaking theatre play. The pressure did not irk him, he was used to that, but people's idiocy drove him up the wall. Dozens of meaningless phone calls from those who thought they knew something and constant nagging of the press clouded the useful trails.

But now, after three days of investigating, Saunders was starting to become certain that he was going to solve the case soon. Even Lestrade couldn't convince him otherwise.

Greg was irritated with Jason for hitching on _that_ trail so obstinately but he knew that was the only reasonable one they had so far.

The team had really done a titanic job. They'd checked every suspicious name, CCTV recordings, thoroughly questioned all the witnesses and, may Sherlock say whatever he wants, made sure that every last bit of evidence was collected. What had been lost when John and the paramedics had been running around the flat could not be recovered even by that git of a genius.

After three days of hard work and a constant battle with the media the official investigation was starting to head somewhere but it was not where Sherlock and John expected it to. No one could expect this.

And so, when he considered everything he'd heard and seen, the same 'nagging sensation' that fooled him over three years earlier nested in Gregory Lestrade's head. He tried to shake it off but it wouldn't go away. His cop hunch told him that it was all a terrible misunderstanding but somewhere in the back of his head alarm beams resounded.

There had been far too many cases where considerably less evidence pointed to...the murderer.

Greg almost felt sick. Was it possible...that he did not know John as well he thought? They were friends after all, how likely it was that he wouldn't have noticed anything suspicious about the doctor if there was such a thing?

Then he suddenly remembered a case when the son of a very respected and experienced DI turned out to be a rapist and murderer and he really felt sick. More examples crowded in his head, making him uncomfortable but he managed to collect himself quickly.

Even if he could have somehow missed something he knew that Sherlock Holmes most certainly would not. Lestrade knew John quite well but it was nothing in comparison with Sherlock's knowledge about the doctor. Greg was certain that the detective knew much more about his friend than anyone else, even the man's wife.

That poor, poor woman. He didn't see her too often but she was a truly charming person. He envied John for having such a beautiful and kind-hearted but strong woman by his side and when he saw them together he often thought of the times when he was so happy with his own wife. The kind of love the Watsons shared couldn't be faked.

Lestrade was also no longer wondering about John's reaction during that first night. Greg, as well as the other policemen expected him to be completely devastated and he _was, _he just didn't show it. Lestrade didn't understand it at first but then he remembered.

It was not just a soldier's toughness. John had been acting exactly the same way after Sherlock's supposed suicide. After the first wave of shock had passed he literally shut down, cut himself off from it all. The doctor's friends were greatly worried about his almost catatonic state but it quickly became clear that the impassivity was just an illusion, a mask. John wore it only when someone was watching but there had been some slips that betrayed the truth. It seemed that now John put the mask back on.

Lestrade felt disgusted with himself for having even a moment of doubt. True, the evidence was something to think about but he decided to trust in John and Sherlock's infallibility. The last time he didn't it ended with a tragedy. Now it had started with one and he was not going to let another one happen.

Greg sighed heavily and took his phone out of his pocket.

.

When four days after the murder John was summoned again he arrived with Sherlock by his side. The two men were followed by a man in a tailored suit who was carrying a small briefcase. From the looks on their faces Saunders' realised that they knew and he made a mental note to give Lestrade a word about informing a suspect of the progress on an ongoing investigation.

John and Sherlock stayed relatively calm outside but inside they were both boiling. Aside from that and grief that was still very fresh John felt something else too, but he didn't quite know what it was.

The evidence that was supposed to prove that the doctor was innocent did quite the contrary. When Lestrade called Sherlock the previous day and said that no traces of anyone but John and Mary had been found in the flat, the young detective was trembling with rage. He _knew_ that such traces must have existed and if only that idiot Saunders had let him go to the crime scene John would have been left alone by now.

The policeman was so persistent that Sherlock shouldn't be involved that even multiple phone calls from Mycroft could not change his mind, the man was not easily frightened. Sherlock was even more outraged with his brother than the stupid cop but there was nothing else to be done for now. He had already made a few attempts of sneaking into the flat but it was under constant observation. Saunders was very...possessive about his cases and knew Holmes would try to interfere by using Lestrade so he made sure no such thing would happen. Lestrade had no reasonable arguments to counter him.

But it wasn't just the lack of traces of anyone unknown that moved the case where it was not supposed to go. There was more.

John observed Sherlock cautiously as the tall man listened to Lestrade.

"I'm telling you, I had nothing to do with it. They won't let me touch anything, Saunders is too stubborn. But all the stuff they dragged out..." A pause.

"It doesn't look good, Sherlock. I can't tell you more now, in fact I might get fired for what I said, but..." Another pause and a sigh.

"He's going to need help. So, I don't know, perhaps your brother could send you someone."

Sherlock didn't say anything and the call was soon disconnected.

"Well? What was that all about?" John asked tiredly and the detective looked at him.

"You are going to need a lawyer." Sherlock said in an even voice and the doctor sighed.

"That's not surprising, I guess. Given that those idiots thought..." John trailed off for a moment but quickly resumed speaking.

"But you didn't answer my question. What did Lestrade say? Did they find anything at last?"

Sherlock hesitated long enough to make John suspicious. Was it possible that the police did not find _anything_? Could they really be this incompetent?

After three days of crying, anger was starting to take over him. 'Sherlock is right about them. They are a bunch of useless, lazy morons!' he fumed inwardly as fury rapidly welled up inside him. 'And they dared to suggest that I was involved, the sodding bastards! Instead of looking for that sick fuck who slaughtered Mary they are just sitting on their arses, doing nothing!'

"Yes, they are useless but apparently they _think _they have found something."

The doctor was not surprised by his friend's mind-reading skills anymore. Sherlock continued, this time not allowing himself to hesitate.

"I don't know what exactly they'd found but the fact is that...it points to you."

There. Just like that, the detective said it baldly like it was nothing, making John explode.

"Are you fucking kidding me?! Four days and they still think it's me? The bloody idiots!" the doctor bellowed and with the last word he slammed his fist on the wall. It hurt but he didn't care.

Sherlock firmly locked his gaze with his friend's and the storm in the dark ocean of John's eyes quieted down almost immediately when a ray of that brilliant light pierced it. The doctor inhaled and exhaled deeply and closed his eyes to collect himself. It was all so much to take and he didn't know if he could muster enough strength to handle it.

When he reopened his eyes Sherlock's face was a feet away from his. The detective's spoke in a voice that was a low, vibrant whisper.

"Don't worry. Everything will be sorted out soon." A pause. "One way or another, this man _will _be found. I'll make sure of that."

John leaned heavily against the wall and closed his eyes again. He felt like collapsing into his friend's arms and he knew he would be caught but he managed to stay standing.

Sherlock felt torn. The dominant side of him wanted to immediately continue his own investigation. Well, of course he did have one. Every since the beginning he had been collecting data and when he was told he could not help the police, he started searching on his own. He used all of his resources but without any information from the police he didn't get too far. Not yet.

Another side, the human part that he tried so hard to subdue was telling him to stay where he was just a little bit longer. Suddenly, the vision of him closing John in his arms in the hospital fleetingly appeared in the detective's head, as if prompting him to do the same now. He had no idea where did that come from and was completely taken aback by it.

Ah, right. Sentiment again.

He pushed the strange thought away and spoke again in a slightly lighter voice.

"I'm going to call Mycroft. He will get you the best lawyer in England."

John only nodded, staring into nothingness.

* * *

_Don't be angry with me for making Lestrade have a moment of doubt, I swear he had his reasons._

_Anyway, I hope you liked it. Whether you did or not, leave a comment if you wish so ;) Every form of feedback makes me want to write more and better._


	8. A bit not good

_Isayan, kotane, Benfan, thank you again! Your support is amazing:) Also, thank you Meduimaane for favouriting and you Lamarquise for following!_

_Ekhem, be warned, this chapter is ridiculously far-fetched and I also stole another quote(title) from Doyle. Yeah. _

_Anyway, enjoy!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

After a long conversation with the lawyer John calmed down a bit. Although, when at one point the man asked him straight from the shoulder if he had killed his wife, the doctor nearly punched the smug bastard. He _would _have punched him if Sherlock didn't intervene. The lawyer warned him that such outbursts could cause him trouble and John promised to behave.

Since they didn't know where they were standing and couldn't prepare a line of defence, Marcus Telling (that was the lawyer's name) only instructed John when to speak and when not to.

When the three of them arrived at the station, Sherlock a bit closer to his doctor than usual, they were met by rather reluctant faces of DI Saunders and his team.

"Welcome again doctor Watson, I see you brought company." the DI said with artificial blandness. John shook his hand curtly and nodded.

"Yes. You know Sherlock already and...this is Marcus Telling." he said, hoping the man he named would finish his own introduction.

"Good afternoon, sir. I am doctor Watson's lawyer." Telling shook the DI's hand professionally, offering a practised smile.

"Naturally. Shall we proceed, then?" Saunders' smile was just as plastic when he gestured to the open door to his office. John and Telling walked in and the DI followed them, slamming the door shut without another glance at Sherlock.

The young detective was about to start looking for Lestrade but was stopped by a voice that made him wince.

"Hey, Freak."

Sherlock turned begrudgingly to face the curly haired sergeant.

"What do you want? I don't have time." he growled.

To his surprise she did not snap back at him, just looked at the ground for a moment, apparently trying to find the right words.

"I...I heard what happened." she said lamely.

Sherlock snorted. Oh, what an achievement. She heard what happened and decided to tell him that, just in case he didn't know. Mindless woman. He wanted to leave but she spoke again.

"Tell John I'm sorry."

Just that, nothing more. She said that in an unusually small voice and her words carried trace of the usual venom.

Sherlock said nothing, only turned away and left her in the middle of the hallway. Donovan believed John was innocent in spite of the supposed evidence but how could that possibly matter? What could it change? Her words presented no actual value, as always.

He wasn't focused and did not notice Lestrade until he collided with him, nearly knocking them both off their feet.

"Jesus Sherlock, watch where you're going!" the DI grumbled, steadying himself.

"Sorry. (Sorry?) I was looking for you. Can we talk?"

Lestrade grew serious and nodded. He knew that Holmes would come to him.

"Alright. Follow me."

A few minutes later they were in Greg's office. The DI rested his elbows on the desk, leaned on them and observed Sherlock for a few seconds. The younger man was already growing impatient.

"It really doesn't look good." Greg said finally, earning himself an irritated eye roll.

"Yes, I heard that already. Details, if you please."

Lestrade glanced at the door, then back at Sherlock. It was obvious that the DI was reluctant to tell the truth but eventually he started speaking, almost exactly the same moment when John's questioning started.

Despite being separated by multiple walls and offices, similar dark thoughts started gathering in both Sherlock's and John's heads as more and more words poured out of the mouths of two Detective Inspectors.

.

Lestrade was right, it did not look good. It _was_ not good, and not just a bit.

No one saw anything or anybody suspicious in the neighbourhood of Cavers' Street 11 during the night of the murder. Nothing on the CCTV either, even in London cameras were not in every corner and the Watsons unfortunately lived in an area that wasn't surveilled too well. Besides, winter that year was particularly harsh, many cameras had been damaged and weren't replaced yet.

Even though the hospital camera captured John's departure, there was no record of him going home. There was only one short, poor quality clip that showed nothing useful. Sherlock inwardly cursed the city for doing a crappy job with surveillance and also John for being such a hopeless romantic. Stargazing in the beginning of March! That stupid man.

Somehow the Yarders didn't find it unlikely that John would call for help while Mary was still alive if he indeed had been responsible. The 'explanation' was that he had been an army doctor and technically could know how to inflict lethal injuries without causing immediate death. Though Sherlock knew it was to some extent logical he couldn't help a slight twitch when he heard it from Lestrade.

No signs of a forced entry clearly suggested that Mary knew the killer and that could also point to John. The doctor thought that maybe she left the door open by accident, she did that sometimes but the area where they lived was relatively safe. Or at least it used to be.

But that was nothing, it wasn't really evidence.

There were scratch marks on John's arms. Traces of blood inside the cuffs of his coat. His and _only_ his DNA under Mary's fingernails. His unusual behaviour in the Yard. The fact that no one could confirm he was not in his flat at the time of murder for the eyewitnesses' testimonies were useless.

Still, just circumstantial.

The PTSD. Even the stupid attack on the Chief Superintendent as a supposed indication of John's 'aggressive tendencies'. Nothing stolen. Complete lack (yeah, right) of evidence to confirm that there was indeed someone else involved.

And the worst of all. The insurance policy for two hundred thousand pounds the Watsons signed barely a week before Mary's death.

When Lestrade finished talking Sherlock felt...uneasy. He was aware that far less evidence could cause serious trouble and all too well knew what that meant for John. True, with his limited access to the official information Sherlock's hands were tied but he couldn't help feeling partially responsible for what was to come.

But enough of that. He had to keep a straight head.

'Get a grip of yourself! It has only been four days. There's still a lot of time to prove all these idiots wrong before they can charge him with anything.' he scolded himself for the momentary weakness.

All he had to do was find the traces MET missed and use Lestrade to confirm their authenticity. He was willing to pull all the strings that needed to be pulled, heck, even ask Mycroft to move his lazy self and do something if it was indeed needed.

He also found it somewhat reassuring that John's _illegal_ gun wasn't found by the technicians for the detective had 'borrowed' it earlier. John wasn't too pleased with him at first but now he probably changed his mind. Keeping an unregistered gun was never helpful to suspects, after all.

There was the public, too. Sherlock generally despised it but he knew that in the current situation having fans and the mass' support could be handy. People almost worshipped him and were also very fond of his dear blogger so it would take time to convince them that their favourite army doctor was a cold-blooded murderer.

The press had started speculating and people were already giving the police a hard time. Once the suspicions would resurface, the pressure would be unbearable. The Yard would grow desperate and those who are desperate are easily manipulated. That's were Sherlock was going to step in. He already had a few plans how to make Saunders let him in the investigation so that all of this madness could be finally concluded.

He knew however, that even though the public could be an advantage it could also become their worst enemy. Just a few words could change people's point of view, love could easily turn into hatred. He knew it better than anyone else, he'd experienced it firsthand.

Sherlock realised he had to be quick.

Not wanting to waste time he got up and headed to the door but Lestrade's voice stopped him.

"It's more than enough and you know it." A simple statement.

Yes, Sherlock did know, which did not mean he was going to wait for it idly. A glint of challenge flickered in his quicksilver eyes.

"Enough to do what?" he demanded and Lestrade hesitated. Holmes' next words were dripping with disdain.

"Oh, I see. They are going to arrest him." he spat.

"Yes. Not now, but it's just a matter of time. Even if they find something that could confirm what he said, it's all gotten too far already. He will be arrested." Lestrade uttered with difficulty.

The whole situation was hard for him too. Being unable to to aid a distressed friend was driving him crazy, especially because he was a policeman himself.

Sherlock just stood there for a few seconds, not looking at Lestrade.

"Useless idiots." he blurted out before he could stop himself. His voice was so bitter that he grimaced as if he could taste it and without further ado he stormed out of Greg's office, leaving the DI lost in thought.

.

John was nearing the edge of his patience. If it weren't for the lawyer's presence he would have exploded five minutes after entering the questioning room.

When half an hour earlier he sat down with Telling by his side and could finally get a closer look at Saunders' face he immediately realised something.

The policeman was not a poor actor. He didn't try to hide his suspicions from the doctor anymore, he did quite the contrary. His entire self openly spoke accusation and it enraged John in a blink of an eye. The questions did not help him calm down in the slightest. Yet again, he was asked about pretty much the same things as before, though now the police's 'discoveries' were added.

It was ten times worse to hear all of that straight from the DI's mouth than it was from Sherlock's. His friend's deep, familiar voice did wonders to soothe his nerves in the worst moments of this nightmare.

Now John Watson was finally certain that he was the prime suspect in the case of his wife's murder.

Many hours, questions and curses later he stormed out of the questioning room fuming, his face twisted in a mixture of anger, pain and – now he knew what it was – a fair amount of worry.

Telling rushed out right after him but in comparison with the doctor he was an oasis of tranquillity. He remained collected even though things didn't go exactly as planned. Not that they ever did.

John was too busy trying to regain control to notice the strange looks cast at him furtively as he made his way towards the exit. He wanted to leave the place as soon as possible. He knew so many of the policemen and the MET was almost his other workplace but in that moment he hated it and everyone inside almost as much as he hated the monster who took Mary away from him.

How dare they. How they fucking dare.

Four days for nothing. Earlier when he'd heard about the lack of traces of the killer he was pissed off, but now he was literally tossing with impotent rage. Telling had a hard time trying to calm him down in the questioning room but he more or less succeeded. Now John could feel it all pour out of him.

Beside the raving anger fear was slowly crawling out of its lair to bare its ugly teeth at him. In the beginning he was certain that he would be cleared of any accusations very quickly but now he was starting feel concerned and an unpleasant vision of himself being handcuffed formed in his head. Still, what pained him the most was that the police had done literally nothing to catch the killer(at least he thought so). They seemed to think they already did.

There was, however, someone called Sherlock Holmes. The extraordinary man who was the most brilliant and stubborn detective in the world and who also happened to be his friend.

Thinking of that managed to settle John's disturbed nerves. Sherlock was going to solve it.

Speak of the devil...where was he?

"Doctor Watson! Doctor, please slow down." a slightly breathless voice resounded behind him. Oh, right. Telling.

John turned to face the lawyer who was doing his best to look impeccable in spite of a three-storey run downstairs. With a surprise John realised that they were already by the door. He heard muffled voices outside, looked over his shoulder and winced when he saw reporters gathered on the sidewalk. He forced himself to look back at Telling.

"Sorry. I just...forgot myself. Sorry." he said lamely, not even bothering to fake honesty. The lawyer was not offended in the slightest.

"It's nothing, doctor Watson. However, back in the questioning room..." Telling started but John interrupted him quickly.

"Can we not do this right now? I'm really knackered. And tomorrow..." John paused for a moment. "Anyway, not now please. I have to go home."

He had no idea what he meant. Did he even have a home anymore? It was true that he needed to go to his and Mary's flat at Cavers' Street 11 (the forensic team finally agreed to leave) but without her there he could not bring himself to call that place home, not after what happened there. It was just an empty house now.

John realised he made another pause. Telling was patient but clearly reluctant to let him go.

"I understand that it's hard for you sir, but we really should discuss your line of defence. The sooner we do it the better, trust me." the lawyer said politely but firmly. John sighed.

"I know it's important but I really don't have time right now. It will have to wait till the day after tomorrow." he persisted. Telling was silent for a moment but apparently realised that the doctor's was not going to budge.

"Alright then. I'll prepare everything I can on my own and inform you about the progress."

John thanked him. The steadiness of the lawyer's voice gave him a tiny bit of reassurance but it could not compare with the effect that a certain, rich baritone had on him. Then John remembered that the detective was not with them.

"Where's Sherlock? Did he stay in there?" With reluctance he nodded towards the upper storeys but Telling shook his head.

"No, doctor. Mr. Holmes left a while ago, I just called him. He did not mention where he was heading to."

John felt a pang of something in his chest, something he didn't recognise. In the last few days his mind was constantly overloaded with extreme emotions and he was having problems identifying them sometimes. He ignored the feeling, guessing that Sherlock went to investigate a new trail and he addressed Telling again.

"Okay, I'll contact him later. Thank you for your help."

They both said goodbye and John uncertainly reached for the door handle and with a heavy weight on his shoulder he left the building, feeling completely vulnerable. The reporters lunged at him, pushing microphones into his face and yelling. He said something to them but didn't even hear himself in all the noise. When he finally sat down in cab, a feeling of dreadful loneliness descended upon him.

* * *

_I hope it wasn't too discouraging. _

_Remember, feedback makes me happy and perhaps it can help me improve my writing so...a word or two, please? ;)_


	9. The basement thing

_Thank you so much for your support, folks! Isayan Jesmayan, Lamarquise, SHansen, kotane, Thalianaa, guest thanks for commenting. CorpseGrl, friendlythistle, englishtutor, Imutaski and Thalianaa again, thank you for following!I hope I didn't forget anyone.  
_

_Warning: Just feels and kitsch in this one and also a fair amount of OOC Sherlock. I can't justify the first two, but I'll _try_ to explain the last one at the end of this chapter._

_You should also know that, despite the fact I have written a lot in advance I have some major repairs to make, so a bit of delay is possible. Sorry for that._

_Oh, and if anyone's interested you can view the cover pic on rephis. deviantart. com (without the spaces). The quote I used is visible there._

_I don't own 'Sherlock.'_

* * *

Some time later John was starting to regain control over himself after yet another breakdown.

He was alone in his and Mary's flat. After the technicians left he immediately regretted coming there in the first place and despair once again overwhelmed him as he looked around the apartment that now felt so alien, so hostile. Once a part of his life, now the only thing it reminisced was death.

He felt cornered, like a caged animal that could do nothing to defend itself, nothing to hide. There was no escape from this and he was still far too weak to fight on his own. No one to give him a hand, no one to save him from the pain. He had no choice but to subject to it again.

He sobbed and shivered for a long time and his mind became hazy but at one point he thought he could hear his wife's voice inside his head.

'John. I know it is hard, but you have to accept it.'

'I don't want to accept it. I don't want you to be gone, I can't deal with this! Please, please, I don't want to be alone...' he pleaded, not even knowing if he was talking out loud.

'You are not alone.' she soothed him. 'You will never be. No one is ever going to take away what is ours. And remember that even now that I'm gone, you still have someone by your side who loves you.' she sang. 'Now get up, Captain Watson.'

He didn't feel like getting up but an order was exactly what he needed.

With a tremendous effort John gathered himself and rose to his feet, clenched his jaw and took a few deep breaths. Once he calmed down a bit he finally started doing what he came there for, though it was still very hard for him to think straight. He slowly began collecting the necessary objects, avoiding the bedroom as much as he could. At one point he considered calling Sherlock or someone else for help but decided that he needed to face the task on his own.

When he returned to Baker Street it was two in the morning. He didn't feel even a bit drowsy, he was too anxious with what was about to come in just ten hours. He carefully placed Mary's things on the floor and quickly turned away from them. Sherlock was nowhere to be found and John felt a bit disappointed for he was hoping to find some comfort just in his friend's presence.

He sighed, made his way to the kitchen and five minutes later he was seated at the table with a cup of strong, bitter coffee. Its warmth and aroma made him feel a bit better but also painfully reminded him of that night when Casey had brought him coffee soon before he took a walk beneath the stars. The doctor shook his head, chasing the recollection away. He thought of that walk many times and now was not the time to do it again.

He fished his phone out of his pocket. A few missed calls, two new messages. Mary's parents, an old army mate. John politely typed back some answers and again thought of calling Sherlock. He was already choosing his number, but then relented. True, Sherlock was very helpful during the chaos that was the last four days but he never reacted well when someone called him. John figured he could wait since he was not sure if he could handle even a whit of rejection at the moment.

Meanwhile, the aforementioned consulting detective was nearing Baker Street in a cab. He was so lost in thought that the driver had to tap him to gain his attention.

"Sir! We're here, sir." The cabbie said with a slight cockney accent. Sherlock glared at him with irritation and observed the man for a second or two.

Married, two kids. Been ill lately. Doesn't smoke. Owns a small, black dog. Hates his job.

Irrelevant.

Quick deductions like this one usually improved Sherlock's mood but not this time. He paid quickly and left the cab, not waiting for change. Huffing out clouds of mist he opened the door to 221B and entered it with a swish of his long coat. He started treading up the stairs and when he reached the landing, he stopped.

The flat above was silent but Sherlock was certain that John was there. For some reason the detective felt uncertain and it was not just because of the news(or rather lack of thereof) he was bringing. Something from the depths of an abandoned basement in his mind palace was trying to resurface and he did not know what it was. It must have been illogical and unimportant if it ended up forgotten. He shook the notion off and walked up the remaining stairs.

John was sitting in the kitchen, a cup placed before him. His face was resting in his hands. The unknown thing from the basement grabbed Sherlock's insides and twisted them at the sight of the miserable man.

The doctor uncovered his face and looked at him blearily.

"Oh, you're back. Where have you been?" John's voice was rasped and tired and it was evident that he was crying lately. Sherlock cleared his suddenly dry throat.

"I was, um... checking a few trails. Talked to my informants."

"Well? Did you find anything?" John said hopefully, dark blue eyes clearing a bit.

Sherlock's face fell and so did the doctor's when he saw that.

"No."

It was said so quietly that John almost missed it. He only nodded silently, not looking at his friend.

"I'm sorry." darted out of Sherlock's throat suddenly, surprising them both. John's eyes shot up at him.

"There's nothing to be sorry about. It's not your fault." John said firmly. He was not used to hear Sherlock apologise, especially not when he wasn't to blame.

The detective found himself unable to meet his eyes. 'What is wrong with me?' he thought angrily. It really _was not_ his fault, so why did he say that?

They did not talk about the questioning and the progress of the investigation, they didn't need to. John was certain that Sherlock already knew everything from Lestrade and he really did not feel up to go through that again. Both men were aware of the gravity of the situation. They remained in silence for a few, tense moments and then John coughed and got up.

"Listen, I have to prepare everything before the morning. I have, um..." he glanced at his watch. "...four hours. Almost four, and I could really use some help. Would you mind?"

John did his best to make it sound even, but Sherlock immediately sensed a tinge of...hesitance in his voice and realised that the doctor actually feared rejection. Sherlock was far more eager to continue his search but he knew John was craving his presence, a contact with someone close he could trust and the awareness that John thought he was going to refuse was...oddly painful for the detective even though he knew it was justified.

All these thoughts passed through his head in less than blink of an eye and he nodded quickly. As they worked Sherlock couldn't help but start wondering again.

He could not offer John what the man needed. He thought he could, he did his best, he really did. He used his best skills to find the killer, was by John's side almost all the time, more than ever before. But in order to solve the case he pushed all the emotions aside, nearly forgetting how devastating it all was for his faithful doctor.

The ugly basement creature finally raised its head so that Sherlock could look at it.

Remorse. Not just because he did not find anything(that was going to change soon). Not because he left John in the Yard earlier(he knew the doctor understood). Not because he was cool and collected when his friend was raving in despair.

As absurd as it seemed, it was because he was not able to feel what he should the way he should, not capable of expressing enough compassion.

And it was not about Mary, he liked Mrs Watson even if it sometimes seemed otherwise. It was just that his feelings, numbed by years of logic's firm reign simply refused to come out to the light. The information about Mary's death took him by surprise and that was when he had been the closest to letting emotions truly take over him. He knew that feeling bad about being himself was stupid and childish but he couldn't get rid of the thought that to truly help John he should feel and do what normal people did, just for once.

He was not aware that John was observing him closely. In spite of his own sorrow, the doctor still felt concerned for his friend.

"Hey. Are you alright?" he spoke to Sherlock softly.

Sherlock looked at him with surprise but quickly averted his gaze.

"Of course. Don't worry about me." he said dismissively, attempting to look busy.

John was not about to let go.

"Tell me. What's wrong, do you feel guilty? I've told you that it's not your fault." the doctor pressed. Sherlock did not answer and heavy silence hung between them again.

"Please. I need to know."

John said that in a way that made the detective feel as if he was stabbed in the chest. It sounded so desperate, so lonely and insecure, as if the doctor's life depended on receiving an answer. Sherlock was startled by it and the fact he did not know what it meant. He felt that if he didn't answer, John would crumble.

"I... I should have solved this already. This man should be locked up by now." Sherlock said uncertainly. He figured that John didn't have to know what actually was on his mind.

"I'll repeat what I said. I do not blame you. You had no access to anything, it's hardly your fault the cops are stubborn idiots."

John wasn't sure if he could handle someone else' problems at the moment but he was willing to take the risk. He could not bear the thought of Sherlock feeling remorseful.

One more look at the detective told John knew that the man didn't say everything.

"There's more." John stated. "What is it about?"

Normally he would have easily interpreted Sherlock's meaningful silence but his head was in too much of a mess to let him do that right away.

The detective refused to say more. He feared John's reaction but considered it unacceptable to cause his friend any more pain which would inevitably happen if he voiced his thoughts. But he didn't have to voice them for realisation suddenly dawned upon John.

'Of course. He's having a 'I'm a freak' moment. Idiot.' the doctor thought bitterly. It was not the first time it happened.

When Sherlock had returned from his hiatus many harsh words were said, or rather yelled. Physical abuse did not go amiss, either. John was angry, happy, hurt and generally shaken up. Sherlock was not.

The doctor could not comprehend how the man could be so calm, so indifferent after what had happened. The fact that Sherlock seemed to be unmoved by it all pained John even more than that he had been lied to. Back then he was too consumed by his own pain to look at all from the detective's point of view.

Sherlock did not feel guilty. He did what he considered right and no amount of his doctor's anger could convince him otherwise, he knew that John would finally calm down and be reasonable again. And that lack of remorse was exactly what made the detective feel so uncomfortable with himself. Remorse with not feeling remorseful, how ironic. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was wrong, so wrong to act as if all was well again when it clearly was not for John, the man who he had tried so hard to protect from harm.

But he could not force himself to feel enough. Emotions were too deeply buried beneath the foundations of his mind palace, the place ruled by logic and calculation. As he and John struggled with their own problems, Mary was the one who made the first move to make them truly reunite.

She had a long talk with John about Sherlock and what the man was like. Thanks to her John finally remembered that _that_ was the way his friend was and that he had actually accepted it a long time ago. Expecting Sherlock to be anyone but himself was pointless.

Eventually, John's anger faded. It took some time but thanks to Mary's help it wasn't long and soon the brilliant detective and his blogger were more or less back to their normal selves, solving crimes together.

Now that John remembered what Mary did for them and realised what Sherlock's issue was he felt dangerously close to breaking again. He sat heavily on the floor and hung his head between his knees. Sherlock looked at him and spoke uncertainly.

"Do you... want some tea?" It was a lame attempt but John appreciated it.

"Yeah, thanks." he said even though he'd just finished his coffee.

Sherlock promptly disappeared in the kitchen. When he returned with two steaming cups in his hands John was sitting in his old armchair. The detective walked over to him, handed the cup to his friend who muttered a quiet 'thanks' and then he took his own chair. They sipped the tea in silence, not looking at each other. Finally John couldn't take it anymore and said what he felt he should have said before.

"Thank you for being here with me." His voice was scratchy and quiet. Sherlock glanced at him and then looked at the floor again.

"Where else should I be?" He said it as quietly as John and a small, sad smile crossed the doctors' features as he straightened in his chair.

"I mean it, Sherlock. The last few days were...a horror. I don't know what would I do if it wasn't for you." He received no answer, so he simply continued.

"You helped me, more than anyone else could. I don't care what you think about it, but it's true."

John didn't say all of that for no reason. They were adult men and as such they almost never talked about how they felt but he wanted to make sure Sherlock understood.

The detective finally met his doctor's eyes but the smile on John's face was already gone. John turned his head and stared through the window. His eyes were glistening as he heaved a shaky sigh.

"It is very hard for me, Sherlock." A pause. "Don't get me wrong, I know that you did all you could, I said it myself. It's just that today..." His voice broke suddenly and Sherlock frowned.

Oh. Perhaps he shouldn't have left him in Scotland Yard then. Cursing his own stupidity, he only then realised that after John was released he had to deal with a crowd of reporters and go back to his and Mary's flat and he had to do all of that on his own, four days after his wife was brutally murdered.

But John was a tough man. He swallowed the tears and looked back at the detective. He was _not_ going to let another breakdown take over him. Sherlock was there, right next to him and only that mattered. John cleared his throat and with slightly more strength he spoke.

"Ah, never mind. Let's get this stuff sorted, shall we?" He gestured to his and Mary's discarded possessions and got up. Sherlock nodded and joined him promptly. Once again, no more words needed to be said as they both worked, offering aid to each other just by being there.

* * *

_Ok, justification time. While I don't think we would ever see this, I like to believe that Sherlock feeling remorse with not feeling enough compassion is to some extent possible. He did once ask Mycroft if there was something wrong with them. After the hiatus he could be a tiny bit more sensitive. Besides - it will sound rather pitiful - I have based this a bit on myself. I sometimes have problems with feeling, I don't feel enough compassion and realising that is never pleasant. True, I am just a random, immature girl and Sherlock is a grown, reasonable man but in situation where his best mate's wife has been murdered and he knows he doesn't feel everything right...maybe he could experience something like this? I don't really know._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this slow and not very fascinating chapter. Leave a comment if you wish so ;)_


	10. Out of their depth, as always

_There you go, another chapter after a week's delay, sorry. This one is a bit longer but I can't say it's good. Try as I might, I couldn't make it better. You can never rely on me, remember that ;) _

_Thanks again everyone who commented and followed! I guess there's no need to list all the names every time, you know who you are :) Anyway, you need to know that I love you. It's fantastic that people read my stuff._

_Warnings: A failed attempt at writing a decent deduction, not too much 'feels'(for a change)_

_Ah, I still hope you'll enjoy it!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

The cold, early spring sun peeked through the window of 221B Baker Street and John blinked as its bright reflection in the mirror reached his tired eyes. He was angrily fighting his tie but any efforts to adjust it with his shaky hands proved completely futile and he was about to tear the blasted thing off his neck when two hands stopped him.

"Come on, let me do this. You'll rip it to pieces if you keep doing that." Sherlock's placid but commanding voice resounded behind him and John immediately let go.

The detective took a step forward to stand in front of him. At ease he undid the chaotic ravel that the doctor managed to produce and then, every single move solemn and delicate, Sherlock's slim fingers slowly but deftly knotted the tie. In normal circumstances he would probably find the current situation sort of awkward but the fact was that, at the moment, his friend's closeness was making him feel a lot better. He watched Sherlock absently, thoughts drifting away to the ceremony.

"There."

Sherlock stepped aside so that John could look in the mirror. The knot was neat and clean. The widower slowly smoothened the tie.

"Thank you." he whispered, clearly meaning much more than the obvious. The other man said nothing, just offered a small smile but it was all that John needed as a response.

Sooner than he would prefer to the doctor found himself shrugging his coat on.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked, his own long coat and warm, blue scarf already on him. John sighed and said the only thing that was true.

"No."

Because he wasn't. How could he be ready for this? How could anyone be ever prepared to bury someone they love? No matter how many times it happens, it's always just as hard. A bitter recollection of preparing for the funeral of the man standing before him that resurfaced in John's head didn't do much to reassure him either.

Sherlock looked at him with uncertainty. In spite of his answer John moved towards the door and reached for the door handle but then he hesitated. The muffled voices coming from outside weren't too encouraging.

Sherlock acted immediately. He stepped in front of John, opened the door abruptly and a wave of intelligible yells flooded them both. The detective literally jumped out of the building and not at all subtly pushed the vultures away, tearing a path for the doctor who followed him closely. When they were finally safe inside the cab John's face was ashen and it remained like that all the way to the church.

.

The funeral was planned as a small, private ceremony but it didn't remain undisturbed. Some reporters sneaked between the quests and tried to take pictures. Luckily, Mycroft thought of everything beforehand and send a few of his men to keep the press at bay, which basically meant kicking the nosy journalists out of the graveyard.

Both John and Sherlock were thankful though the latter would definitely not admit it.

The whole thing took about five hours. Five agonising hours of accepting more condolences, listening to speeches, struggling to remain calm.

Sherlock hated it. He had a hard time restraining from leaving to continue his search but faithfully remained by John's side even though he knew that time was being wasted.

At one point, when John was nowhere in sight, Lestrade walked over to him.

"How is he doing?" the DI asked lamely. Sherlock looked at him with disinterest.

"You've just talked to him, I'm sure you can come up with the answer on your own." the detective said coolly and Greg bit his lip.

"Yes, I mean, no. I know he's holding it together when with others but...what is it really like when there's just you?" Lestrade wasn't certain why he asked, he didn't have high hopes of receiving an answer. Sherlock regarded him for a second and then turned away.

"He's holding it together." The tone of the detective's voice was inscrutable.

Greg said nothing. Sherlock's answer might have been a sneer or an effect of the lack of ideas what to say, the DI never knew anything for sure when guessing the younger man's thoughts, even after knowing him for so long.

Even Sherlock himself wasn't certain what he meant. Was the term 'holding it together' an appropriate one? It seemed that John was doing relatively well, he was grieving of course but it wasn't anything abnormal. Still, the detective couldn't help feeling that he'd missed something vital, something that even the doctor missed or didn't comprehend yet.

Lestrade's quiet 'mhhhm' made Sherlock look at him again. The DI opened his mouth to say something but he clearly changed the idea because he closed it, cleared his throat and then tried again.

"Did you tell him?" he managed.

The young detective frowned slightly before he realised what Lestrade meant.

"No." he said evenly and it was Greg's turn to frown.

"Why? He should know. I can tell him if you want me to."

"I don't." This time Sherlock's tone was very telling and the DI realised that pressing the topic was pointless so he set on a different one.

"Okay, okay. So, um...tonight at 9 pm, right?" the transition was not the smoothest one but it worked and Sherlock was clearly pleased with the change.

"Yes. And remember to bring someone who _isn't_ Anderson." the detective grumbled and Greg smirked a little in response.

When Sherlock and John finally returned to Baker Street the doctor was completely drained of energy. He wanted to rest but knew he wouldn't be able to and when he remembered about the investigation his already clenched heart twisted even more painfully. He knew it was all far from over and the feeling of uncertainty renewed itself in his head.

Sherlock didn't tell him where he was going and John didn't ask but he guessed that the detective was heading to Cavers' Street. Though he was grateful for his friend's dedication, the doctor wasn't very keen on being left alone but luckily Mrs Hudson came upstairs to keep him company right after Sherlock left.

.

He checked every corner and crevice, analysed every square inch of the flat even more thoroughly than he always did (if that was even possible) but it was simply too late. The technicians had been there for four days and simply effaced almost all the subtle traces that only he could have found. He did manage to find some barely noticeable samples of various kinds of fibres and dirt but he knew that all of that was completely useless without comparative material. Even without tests Sherlock was certain that some of the fibres could be assigned to people and objects whose presence in the flat was fully justifiable but some couldn't be explained at all. The samples, however, were so small that even comparing them to something couldn't stand as an irrefutable proof, they could be taken as a clue at best.

As his mind was trying to piece together the meagre amount of information he had, a new idea suddenly popped into his head. He stood up so abruptly that he startled both the young technician from Lestrade's team and the DI himself.

"They didn't find any footprints here, right?" he demanded from the DI.

"Yeah, you more than once remarked that they had been idiotically destroyed."

"Well, they were destroyed _here_. I do now believe it was not merely a result of incompetence, though shortsightedness can also be considered as such." Sherlock said haughtily and then swept out of the flat, leaving the two Yarders staring at each other.

Cursing himself for not coming up with this earlier he practically flew downstairs and stopped in front of the entrance door. Seconds later, as he started walking along the ground-floor corridor, Lestrade and the technician caught up with him.

The building was much bigger than the one where Sherlock lived, it consisted of twelve flats and three floors. John and Mary lived on the third floor and it wasn't hard to deduce that the police didn't find reasons to thoroughly check the entire building. They did try to recreate the path of the killer and also did a quick check to make sure he wasn't there after the murder but it was the crime scene that they had focused on.

Sherlock almost grimaced. Just like the police he had already researched every neighbour, family member and acquaintance of Mary and John and after finding nothing suspicious he too was sure the crime scene would provide him all the answers he needed. Well, perhaps it would have if had been allowed to see it in the beginning but he clung to that thought so strongly that he had made a mistake.

He chased the redundant thoughts away when he found what he was looking for - an unlocked utility room situated near the farther staircase. Yes! That had to be it.

He turned when he heard Lestrade grumble something behind him.

"Sherlock, will you explain? Not all of us can read your mind like John." Greg panted and the young detective scowled at him.

"You think he can read my mind?"

"Who knows with you, really. Anyway, explanation please."

Sherlock turned back to the door, opened it and entered the small room. He cautiously looked around it, bent for a moment and then smiled, feeling his heartbeat quicken ever so slightly.

"He was here."

Greg stared at him.

"What? Who, the killer?"

"Obviously." the young detective said pityingly and Lestrade rubbed his face.

"Expand, if you wouldn't mind."

Sherlock took his magnifying glass out of his pocket and crouched to observe some seemingly random spots but began explaining anyway.

"The killer entered the building through the front door and that's what made it impossible to find his footprints, they had been effaced long before the murder. Why? Because he came here some time before he committed it, hid in this room and during that time all the useful prints on the pavement and in the entrance have been destroyed. There must have been some in this corridor but I bet that no one even checked it properly." Sherlock ended with bitterness evident in his voice but quickly resumed speaking.

"I don't know if he had planned this or not, that is yet to be verified. I am positive, however, that he stayed here long enough for his shoes to dry and the mud to fall off." With that he dove deeper between the brooms and a few seconds later a contended 'aha!' resounded.

With a bit of dust in his hair Sherlock emerged and started pushing the brooms away. He was cautious with being enthusiastic – finding a partial footprint was a good move forward but he knew that it could only be useful when compared to a suspect's even if, which he was certain of, it would turn out to not to belong to any of the inhabitants or cleaners.

Greg nodded to the technician who crouched and quickly took a few photos of the print. As much as Sherlock hated it he had to let the man assist him in collecting the samples (just like in the flat) so that their authenticity could be officially verified. When he worked for Lestrade it wasn't necessary but he all too well knew that for Saunders only the findings confirmed by a technician would count.

Sherlock then collected the meagre amount of dirt from the print and its surroundings but without much hope it could lead him somewhere. There was way too little of it to perform a variety of tests as wide as it was in the case of the prints preserved in linseed oil. He was about to continue his search when Lestrade spoke in a slightly sceptical voice.

"But why would he come here, Sherlock? We talked about this already, maybe he simply wanted to rob someone? He went upstairs, perhaps the door to John's flat was open and he thought someone forgot to lock it, went in and panicked when he saw Mary and...it ended the way it ended."

Sherlock looked at him disapprovingly.

"Didn't you hear me? If it was indeed the way you said there would be prints leading upstairs and to the flat, they could be minimal but wet laces always leave trails and even if the technicians could have missed them I _certainly_ would have not, especially in the flat because only it has a carpet on the floor. Dry, clean prints are a different story but I hope you realise at least that." the young detective drawled out and Greg sighed.

"Okay, so you think it wasn't supposed to be a burglary? I mean, nothing was stolen but the guy could have just panicked." the DI said half-heartedly.

"I didn't say it wasn't but how likely do you think it is that a thief who panics at the sight of a woman in a flat he's trying to rob and stabs her fourteen times would earlier casually spend a few hours in a room where there was a fair risk of him being discovered?"

Greg bit his lip. It _was _possible but not very likely indeed.

"Alright. Why did he come here then? I guess that if he was some random homeless looking for a dry place to stay he wouldn't end up murdering anyone unless he was some frenzied junkie. Besides..." Greg stepped inside the room. "...it's bloody freezing here. Not the best spot to warm up."

Sherlock regarded him a bit more favourably. It was nice to know that some cops actually did have a brain and used it, even if just a little and only sometimes.

"Exactly, and yet he remained here. Theoretically, as you eloquently said he _could_ have been a 'frenzied junkie' who perhaps needed another shot and, with a brain hazed with craving naively hoped that someone would aid him." Sherlock said and then shook his head. "Not a very probable scenario, trust me."

Lestrade didn't discuss it further. He had reasons to believe the younger man knew what he was saying, particularly about that last bit.

Sherlock then told the technician to apply the dactyloscopic powder on some chosen spots and as the man worked the detective resumed speaking to Lestrade.

"The most reasonable option is that he wasn't just an opportunist, he was waiting for _her_, not a random someone. He _knew_ her but I'm willing to bet it was a...one-sided acquaintance or they didn't keep in touch, otherwise I would already know. He found out where she lived and thought that she would give him whatever it was that he needed. When he arrived he also must have known she wasn't in her flat so he came straight to this place to wait because he probably had nowhere else to go. That tells us about desperation. Once he thought that she returned – maybe he even heard it – he went upstairs. The flat was most likely unlocked and when he entered it things quickly got out of hand, she refused him and he didn't take it well. He grabbed a kitchen knife, she tried to escape but he must have been in her way so she couldn't get out of the flat. No one heard her scream, the flats next to hers were empty and the walls muffled the sound well enough. She and the killer caused a bit of a mess in the living room and but they didn't actually struggle too much, hence no fibres or unknown DNA on Mary. He got her when she tried to lock herself in the bedroom and probably stabbed her in the arm or thigh which weakened her enough to not be able to put up too much fight. He silenced her by covering her head with a bag that must have been laying nearby and given that even though it was clearly not an sexual assault and most likely not a robbery he still stabbed her fourteen times it's safe to assume that she wasn't an accidental victim and died because her killer _thought_ it was personal."

When Sherlock finished talking he realised he was grimacing slightly. Why? Logic and calculation were currently in control of his mind so he couldn't really tell.

Silence fell. Had anyone else said all of this, Lestrade would probably dismiss the words as pure speculation but truth was Sherlock was hardly ever wrong and had an amazing intuition. The DI knew, however, that without more conclusive proofs Saunders was still not going to let go of his own 'theory'.

The young technician was staring at Sherlock in awe. Never before did he have an occasion to listen to the legendary detective fire off deductions in his presence and he looked as if he forgot how to form words.

"You...you got all that from what you _didn't_ find?" he finally mumbled and the detective regarded him disinterestedly.

The praise felt so meaningless, so out of place. There was no actual enjoyment in all of this. Sherlock _was_ somewhat pleased with his findings but it was all tinged with bitterness he couldn't seem to shake away.

The fact there were was a tremendous amount of various fibres and fingerprints in the utility room didn't make things much better either and although Sherlock actually suspected it would be like this, it still irked him. The room was not the cleanest one and it took him a while to collect decent samples of what was attention-worthy but he knew that even comparing the fibres from the room and the flat couldn't be considered anything conclusive unless compared to a piece of clothing of a suspect whom he didn't have.

He wasn't too enthusiastic about the discovered fingerprints either. Given that none had been found in the flat or the bloodied knife discarded on the floor it wasn't hard to guess the killer was wearing gloves. There was a chance that he might have taken them off while waiting but the utility room was so frigid that it wasn't all that likely. Still worth a try, though.

Once he collected everything that could prove useful Sherlock didn't really know what to think. He did find what the police missed but when he came to the flat he was so certain he would find an irrefutable proof of John's innocence that finding just clues was almost a disappointment.

With a suspect the case could be quickly concluded but something was telling Sherlock that finding the man was not going to be as simple as he initially thought.

.

The next day John's phone started ringing at 8 in the morning but the time didn't really matter since he woke up at 6 after a few hours of restless sleep.

Sherlock observed him over a cup of coffee, deducing what the call was about just from the doctor's expressions since John barely said anything. The findings weren't pleasing.

"...and even as a professional lawyer I cannot guarantee anything, doctor Watson. I'm afraid an arrest is inevitable but after that there will be plenty of time to work before you can be charged. And though there is fair chance of avoiding it I would recommend you to prepare yourself for the possibility of a trial."

Telling's words pierced the doctor like a blast of frigid wind. He earlier thought that he might be arrested but now that he knew it for sure he felt very uneasy.

If he didn't have the aid of Sherlock and also a possibly unlimited use of England's best lawyers he would be truly terrified, he had seen enough investigations to know that he was in trouble. True, Sherlock did inform him about his findings but without an actual suspect...

'Stop right here, you fool. There's a long way between being arrested and being convicted.' he scolded himself but dread refused to dissipate when he realised that the information would soon become public. What would people think... What would Mary's parents and his friends think?

He rubbed his face with his free hand and as calmly as he could he addressed Telling who was waiting patiently.

"Alright, um...thank you for the warning. I'll contact you as soon as I...get there." John uttered, straining to keep a steady voice. A few moments later the conversation was finished and he slumped heavily on the couch.

"Well? What did he say?" Sherlock said evenly. John looked at him and after a short hesitation he spoke.

"They are going to arrest me." Trepidation was evident in his voice. "Telling said that I should prepare myself for a trial."

Silence fell between them and John realised something.

"You knew." he stated.

Sherlock put down his cup and gazed at the doctor seriously.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"What would it change?"

"Answer my question." John demanded with a frown.

Sherlock didn't avert his gaze but was obviously feeling uncomfortable.

"I thought I could prevent it." he said quietly.

It was true. His obstinacy to solve the case before the arrest consumed him so much that he didn't really consider warning the doctor, he knew John would find out from the lawyer anyway.

It angered the detective to no limits how small was his access to the one case that mattered so much to him, that all he could do was give clues and hope they would be taken seriously by the moronic DI who wasn't at all coerced to listen to him. Being so dependent on the 'good will' of Saunders was making Sherlock wince and forget about everything else other than the investigation.

Guilt filled the doctor when he saw the look on his friend's pale face.

"I'm sorry. I'm just...not really myself." he muttered.

"You have the right to be angry." Sherlock answered immediately for that was what he felt but John just shook his head.

"Yes, but not at you. Not for this. Sorry."

They sat in silence for a moment and then, all of sudden John finally realised it was about time to get a grip of himself. Yes, he wanted to be able to grieve in peace but it was out of his reach for now. A war was coming and there was no time for that. Whoever submits to grief in a war is as good as dead.

'Pull yourself together, Watson. You are a soldier, so act like one. There's a mission to take up. What would _she_ think if you just stayed with your head bowed, pitying yourself?' he used his best inward military tone to reprimand himself. It worked.

John took a deep, composing breath, then exhaled slowly and looked at Sherlock with determination written on his face.

"If they want war, they will have it. I'm not go going to idly let them give me shit."

Sherlock looked at him vividly and literally saw the soldier in John break out of the crushing grip of despair and stand on his feet, shaken up and wounded but ready to throw himself into combat. Seeing the man's will to fight in spite of the burden he was carrying caused a new surge of zeal spread rapidly in Sherlock's body as if his veins started pumping fire. He nodded shortly.

Indeed, a war was coming.

* * *

_violently overuses cliches and the word 'war'_

_Hmm, what do you think? Bearable? Leave a comment if you wish so ;)_


	11. A soap opera

_Late again. My excuse - a new term at uni has started and I was too busy pitying myself to take care of the editing of this story. Sorry. I'm a afraid that delays are bound to happen again._

_Anyway, a big thanks to everyone who commented, followed, favourited or just read this story :) You guys are wonderful._

_Warning: A cheesy theory ahead._

_I hope you'll enjoy the new chapter!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

"Wait a second. Weren't you claiming it was all about that? The policy?" Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade grumbled in exasperation. Jason Saunders regarded him for a second end then spoke again.

"I thought so but you were right. If it indeed had been a plan it would have been the worst plan I have ever seen, this guy would have to be a total idiot and I know he _isn't._ He works with Holmes, I bet he would know how to plan something like this."

Greg frowned suspiciously.

"So you don't think it was planned." he said.

"No, I believe it wasn't."

"What is your point then? I don't follow."

Saunders straightened in his chair. He and Lestrade have been talking for a good fifteen minutes and it didn't seem like they were going to get anywhere.

"I know that doctor Watson is capable of killing...under the influence of emotion."

Greg tensed. 'Oh, crap. Don't let it be what I think it is.'

"What? What are you talking about?" he managed, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Greg. You've been there and seen it."

Lestrade cleared his throat. Yes, he all too well remembered what'd happened on that dark December night and he wasn't particularly keen of that memory.

Seeing that his older colleague wasn't going to answer, Jason Saunders continued.

"Two months ago your kind-hearted doctor friend nearly killed a suspect during a pursuit he shouldn't have even participated in and I know that he went far beyond the borders of what could be considered necessary defence."

Greg's jaw clenched. When the case of Mary's murder had started he knew those events were going to be dragged out sooner or later but he was still hoping that it could be avoided, that no-one would spill the beans. How gullible he was to cling to that hope.

The story was rather simple. A chase gone wrong, Sherlock Holmes facing down two armed culprits, putting a hell of fight. John getting there just in time to see his friend thrown roughly on the ground to get furiously hit in the head with a crowbar.

Somehow, the sight had made John snap. No one actually knew why, after all the doctor had seen Sherlock in far worse situations and something like that had never happened before. Whatever the reason was, John tackled one of the assailants and began hitting him madly, first with his fists and then, to the horror of the officers, he crashed the man's head multiple times against the asphalt and he didn't stop until the policemen dragged him off the unconscious suspect. When they did, John was just as shocked as everyone else. The culprit was taken to the hospital and saved, but it was a close call. Luckily the man didn't even remember what happened.

None of the witnesses mentioned it again, at least not officially. Greg wondered if Sherlock talked about it with John or if John ever told Mary but it was impossible to guess. After the incident Lestrade tried to bug the doctor for answers only to be brushed off with claims that it was just a momentary loss of control, but one didn't have to be a master of deduction to know that John was feeling very uneasy about the whole thing.

Greg broke out of his reverie and addressed Saunders again.

"Alright, it got out of hand but he was just trying to protect..."

"Holmes, I know." Jason interrupted him. "And trust me, it wouldn't really matter to me if it weren't for the circumstances, Greg."

Lestrade sighed angrily.

"And what does it have to do with the case, hmm? What happened in December was a completely different situation. Why the hell do you think he would attack his wife?" he grumbled. Saunders' obstinacy was really starting to become unbearable.

The yoinger DI shifted a bit in his chair.

"Look Greg, I understand your eagerness and I am grateful for your help, but this is still my case. Let me do my work, alright?"

Soon the conversation was finished and Lestrade almost stormed out of Saunders' office.

Just like Greg anticipated, Jason wasn't very convinced by Sherlock's findings. Saunders wasn't all that stupid though and knew that the consulting detective was brilliant at what he did. The younger DI wasn't surprised in the slightest when Lestrade earlier told him about the night visit to the house but he said that, as much as he appreciates the effort, the secured traces are in no way enough to clear the doctor of the suspicions just like that. Still, he was clearly taken aback by the fact that his own team missed a possibly vital clue.

Saunders did have a new theory, however, and wanted to check it thoroughly before fully trusting Sherlock Holmes who might have actually been involuntarily playing a bigger role in the murder.

For many the theory might have seemed utterly nonsensical and far-fetched, but the funny fact is that it's often what the real stories are like. People are used to complicated and clever plots the writers skillfully craft to draw the reader in, while in reality many cases are true soap-operas without much fineness. That was exactly what the new theory was but Saunders had led enough investigations to know that far more unlikely scenarios sometimes ended up being the solution.

After he'd questioned a few of doctor Watson's former partners, a pattern of some sort appeared. None of the women said that the doctor was ever aggressive towards them, truth was that they all felt that he...wasn't actually very interested in them. When asked, they were rather consistent in the claims that Watson was often prone to drop everything when his flatmate required his attention. Now, _that_ naturally didn't have to mean much, but added to the fact that Watson and Holmes had lived and worked together for a year and a half during which the doctor hadn't sustained a relationship for more than three months and the detective apparently didn't even start a relationship was a reason to ponder.

There were no actual proofs that there had ever been something more between the two men, but Saunders decided to investigate the matter further. If his suspicions would turn out to be true, allowing Sherlock to join the investigation would have been a costly mistake.

There was also the matter of the marriage. Some time after Holmes' fake suicide doctor Watson met Mary Morstan whom he married soon after the famous detective returned from the dead. In spite of what it might have seemed, it wasn't actually that much of a flaw of Saunders' theory. The DI knew that sometimes people did such things against themselves, he had seen cases like that and he also knew the suppressed emotions could erupt suddenly and unexpectedly like a volcano and that such outbursts sometimes ended with a tragedy. Still, at that point it was just speculation that needed to be verified and that required an official interrogation.

.

One day later, somewhere around midday Gregory Lestrade was slowly picking a number on his phone. He was hesitant to make the call and he had his reasons. Even though he was sure that what he had to say was not going to be a surprise, it still made him uncomfortable. John was his friend, after all.

He finally pushed the call button and waited a few moments for the doctor to pick up.

"Hello, Greg." came a concise greeting.

"Hi, John." The DI's voice was calm but remorse was audible even in those first words. "How are you doing, mate? Holding on?" he asked lamely.

The question was stupid but Lestrade couldn't bring himself to say the news straight from the shoulder. The thought of having to hurt the good doctor further was hard to bear.

"It's... a bit better, I guess. Thanks for asking. But please, spit out what you have to say." John replied.

Greg sighed. Be it, then.

"Alright. I, um...I suppose Sherlock and your lawyer already warned you, but..." A brief pause. "You are going to be arrested."

There was silence on the other end for a moment.

"I know." John said eventually in a grave tone but remained calm. Greg continued.

"Saunders told me that they wanted to come to Baker Street and do it there but, um...then he suggested that you could come to the Yard yourself." he blurted out. An unpleasant memory of another arrest that took place on 221B Baker Street over three years earlier resurfaced in the DI's troubled head. He shook it away and resumed speaking.

"He wants to avoid the media frenzy. Maybe it will be better this way."

John listened to him, nodding absently. Sherlock earlier told him that something like that was likely to happen and John was averse at first, not wanting to make anything easy for the police anymore but the detective made him realise that it was indeed a better option than being led handcuffed to a police car in front of a crowd of reporters.

The doctor addressed Lestrade again.

"Yes, it will. Thank you for calling me, I really appreciate that. When should I come?"

"The sooner the better, John." the DI said and quickly added: "I regret it has to be like this."

"So do I." The doctor's voice sounded bitter though he naturally didn't blame the befriended policeman. "I'll be there in thirty minutes."

"Alright. I'll tell Saunders." Lestrade then disconnected the call.

John moved the phone away from his ear. The same memory that passed through Greg's mind briefly now reappeared in the doctor's as well. He all too well remembered how it was when Sherlock and him were arrested. It wasn't nice, but in fact not that bad. However, the memory of the arrest was closely linked to that of what happened the morning after and it was something that still made John cringe.

He forced himself to chase the dark recollections away. It was not time to dwell on the past.

Half an hour later he entered the Yard after barely getting rid of the reporters who attacked him when he exited his cab. Sherlock and Telling were waiting for him in the hall.

"They are not wasting time, are they?" John meant both the press and the police as he tried to joke to ease the tension, but it came out rather pitiful. Sherlock eyed him with an unreadable expression.

"Yes, they are. Apparently it's the only thing they're capable of doing." the detective's voice was dripping with disdain.

The two men exchanged a look that was more meaningful than any words could be.

'This is really happening, isn't it? I'm going to be arrested any minute now.'

'Yes. But remember it's only because these idiots have no other ideas. It will all end sooner than you think, I'll make sure of that.'

Feeling a bit better John nodded shortly and the three of them made their way upstairs. Some policemen and other workers glanced at the trio now and then only to be glared down challengingly by both the detective and the doctor.

Once they reached the third floor where Saunders' office was John painfully realised that a big part of his confidence dissipated while he was ascending the stairs.

Preparing yourself is one thing, facing the challenge is another. Even the best combat simulation can only do so much to reduce the stress a soldier feels during his first real fight. John experienced that himself when he was sent to the field for the first time and, oddly enough, now he felt as if he was reliving that moment. He didn't really now why, it wasn't like he had anything to hide. It was just so bloody difficult to keep a straight head while being surrounded by madness.

Sherlock noticed John's agitation. For everyone else it might have seemed that the doctor was completely calm but the detective knew better. When they stopped in front of Saunders' office he took a step forward to stand closer to the doctor. His shoulder touched John's back and he felt the short man minimally lean against him.

Saunders emerged from his office.

"Doctor Watson. Gentlemen." he greeted them with a slight nod.

"Detective." John answered curtly. Telling did the same but Sherlock remained silent.

"You know why you are here, doctor. Let's not prolong this."

The DI gestured to the open door to his office where two officers were already waiting. Well, at least it was not going to happen in the middle of the hallway.

John wordlessly entered the room, feeling a sting of cold where his friend's shoulder was a moment earlier.

Telling went in right after him, followed by Saunders who tried to quickly close the door but Sherlock's hand grabbed it like a vice.

"No. I have the right to be here." he said in a low, icy voice.

"Mr Holmes, we will come out in a minute. I'm sure you can..."

"No." Sherlock repeated distinctly. "An arrest can be performed in front of witnesses. Let me in." he demanded, eyes flashing dangerously as he stood with his face just a few inches from the policeman's. Saunders didn't look away but was clearly surprised by the intensity of Sherlock's gaze. Noticing that things might go wrong, John decided to act.

"It's alright, Sherlock. He's right."

'_No, it's not alright. This is ridiculous._'

Sherlock ignored him, knowing that the idiotic DI had to let him in whether he wanted it or not. Saunders finally relented grudgingly, wishing to avoid a scene. He allowed Sherlock inside and closed the door.

The tension inside the room was almost palpable. Everyone was on edge but the British etiquette didn't allow the gathered men to show it. True, both Sherlock and John wanted to do nothing more than just throw said etiquette out of the window along with the moronic policemen but they managed to keep that to themselves.

John was thankful that Sherlock stayed, the detective's calm but silently supporting demeanour worked like a soothing balsam on the doctor's careworn mind and soul. He straightened his neck and looked straight in the DI's eyes. The man held his gaze as he extracted a piece of paper from a parcel he lifted from the desk and then moved the paper towards John. A warrant. Telling was about to say something but John stopped him, not even looking at the paper.

"Let's get it over with. I believe you argumentation is _very_ convincing." he drawled out, making it sound as sarcastic as he could muster. With a corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's smirk. Saunders' brow furrowed.

"Very well, then. Patrick..." The DI nodded at one of the young officers who then walked over to John. Saunders looked at the doctor again.

"John Hamish Watson, I'm arresting you on the suspicion of murdering your wife, Mary Elisabeth Watson. You have the right to say nothing but everything you say can be used against you in court."

John had heard that formula so many times before. And even though he did expect to hear it under his own address, it still hurt like hell.

He remained silent as his hands were being handcuffed behind his back. He didn't even look at Sherlock when two officers lead him out of the office and to the hallway but he could feel the his friend's presence close by as they all made their way towards the interrogation rooms. He heard the murmuring observers, saw their expressions, some accusatory, some compassionate but all of that seemed to be hidden behind a dense haze. It was still hard for John to believe it was happening.

Sherlock saw the looks too but didn't pay them any attention. His thoughts refused to focus, instead teasing him about his lack of power. It annoyed him how much the sight of John being arrested affected him. John was going to be fine, hurt but fine and soon would be released. So why was it so hard to watch him march though the corridor with handcuffs on his hands? Sherlock's logical mind declined providing an answer.

* * *

_I guess it's easy to tell I have no idea about how the MET works. Sorry, I just wanted to make it a little bit more dramatic. As for that Saunders fellow - I actually do believe a policeman would consider the idea he came up with. I've seen a lot of cases on Investigation Discovery(the cases were real!) and trust me, there were theories far more more cheesy than this one :)_

_Tell me what you think, if you find the time!_


	12. A fluke?

_Oookay, so not that much delay this time. Again, thank you everyone who commented, favourited and followed this story! _

_Warning: a plenty of phone calls in this chapter_

_I hope you'll enjoy it, folks!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'. Or a life._

* * *

The information about John's arrest appeared in the media the following morning, causing an immediate uproar. If in the last four days reporters had been occupying the MET and Baker Street, now it was a full-blown invasion. The topic was hot and fresh and many wanted to be the first ones to report interesting details.

People showered the Yard with phone calls most of which expressed general disdain and disgust towards the force and its doings. Of course no one could believe that their beloved blogger, the kind-hearted assistant of Sherlock Holmes could commit such a horrendous crime. Fans, press and even those who generally didn't care outrivaled each other in creating more and more theories and desperately wanted to share them with Sherlock and the police.

At one point Sherlock got so pissed off with the 'helpful' anonymous callers (now he finally had to admit that making his number public was stupid) that he decided to call Mycroft. To ease the frustration he angrily mutilated a random piece of paper as he dialled the number with his free hand. He didn't have to wait long for his brother to pick up.

"Hello, brother." Mycroft greeted in his seemingly usual cold voice.

"You have to block my number, I can't use my phone because of those blasted idiots who keep calling me. I can't work!" the younger man spat, leaving the niceties out as usual. He wasn't really in the mood for playing nice and there was no one around to make him do it.

There was silence on the other end for a short moment.

"Of course. I will have it taken care of. In fifteen minutes your number will be secure." Mycroft said evenly and then hesitated. "Is there anything else I can..." Another pause.

Sherlock frowned. Since when did his brother stop talking mid-sentence? The older Holmes cleared his throat and spoke again.

"If there's anything else I can do, make sure to call me." With that, Mycroft ended the call.

Sherlock was rather surprised. His brother's readiness to do what was required of him without playing the role an evil genius who is planning to take over the world was something new. However, the detective decided it was not important for there were urgent matters to be taken care of. His investigation was finally starting to move forward. A few hours earlier an informant called him. It was Sam, an old acquaintance who used to be a homeless.

"Hi Mr. Holmes, it's Sam!" The young man had a chirpy, slightly irking voice.

"Yes, hello. I know it's you, I have your number."

"Right, sorry. I just thought I might have something for you."

"Yes?"

"Like you asked, I've been keeping watch in the area you assigned me to and I wanted to tell you that I just heard a strange chat. There were two edgy guys talking about something. They kept cursing, I couldn't make out everything they said but at one point one of them mentioned a killed woman." Sam breathed. "I know it looks like nothing but...it _really_ sounded like they had something to do with it. They didn't say much more but apparently they meant something that happened recently. One of them mentioned that shit has already got crazy so I thought..."

"Yes, thank you Sam. Text me with the location and wait there for me." Sherlock said quickly and ended the call, not waiting for a reply.

A rush of controlled enthusiasm surged in his body, freshened his benumbed mind. It was hardly a promising trail and he wanted to make sure it wasn't just another dead end but he had his reasons to treat the information seriously. He'd spaced out his best observers in many strategic points of the city in case something resurfaced accidentally because he knew he wasn't looking for a criminal mastermind and it was almost certain that the man(men?)would make a mistake sooner or later. Besides, Sam was a trusted informant and a very observant one and wouldn't call him about something trivial.

All the days of fruitless search, malnutrition and lack of sleep wore Sherlock out but he immediately forgot about that because he finally had something to work on. It still irritated him that this was the only thing he had, though. The awareness that he, the man who had solved the most intricate of mysteries and outsmarted some of the most cunning criminals couldn't locate one ordinary cutler was hardly bearable. In any other case it wouldn't matter that much, but...this was _not_ just another case.

The problem was that it's easy for an idiot to hide among idiots. Those who are intelligent, no matter how hard they try to blend in always stand out somehow. Sherlock was a master at finding them and now, as enraging as it was, he couldn't use all of his extraordinary abilities because he was searching for a small-minded man who was simply trying to elude justice, not to play games of any sort. If he did, Sherlock would quickly find his weakness and beat him like he always did.

To make it worse, the media attention was what was helping the murderer more than it threatened him. It created a kind of smokescreen the man could use to escape from the immediate area of the hunt. It seemed, however, that the smoke was starting to dissipate.

Sherlock picked Lestrade's number at light speed and the Inspector answered almost immediately.

"Hi, Sherlock. Have you..."

"Lestrade, I need you to collect all the recent case files involving murders or disappearances of women in London and the immediate area. Come to Baker Street as soon as you have them." Sherlock threw the words out so quickly that Greg barely followed.

"Whoa, wait!" the DI shouted. "What are you talking about? Did you find something?"

"Obviously. Now stop blabbering and do as I ask. I have to know if it's not a false trail, I don't want to waste time."

"If _what's_ a false trail?!"

"Not now!" the young detective growled. "I have to go, don't call me until you bring the files." With that, he ended the call.

Lestrade heaved a sigh. Even after eight years that git of a genius could still annoy him in a matter of seconds. The DI knew, however, that Sherlock was under a lot of pressure so he decided not to ask more questions.

.

While Sherlock investigated and Lestrade buried himself in files, John Watson was almost bouncing off the walls of the small custody cell. It's been just ten hours since he ended up there but it felt as if it's been weeks. Being unable to do anything but wait made him feel utterly helpless. He hated feeling helpless.

Darkness descended upon him again.

It was all so much to take. Not only did he lose his wife but now he wasn't far from being charged for murdering her. How could anyone even think that he could hurt her was beyond him. Hearing Saunders latest theory during the first official interrogation was another painful blow but at least the lawyer did a fine job in making the policemen realise that all they had was in no way enough to even prolong the arrest. Still, John dreaded what was going to happen once he left the custody after forty eight hours of sitting there uselessly. Who except Sherlock would still be convinced of his innocence?

'Many people.'

He wasn't certain whose voice it was that resounded in his head and he wanted to dismiss it, but with relief he realised that the voice was right. Unjust arrests happened quite often after all and they didn't mean being automatically hated by everyone. People knew that police was wrong sometimes. Right?

Right. Just like they knew that in many of cases the husband is the killer.

'Stop, you idiot. You're doing it again.' the voice scolded him. John shook his head to chase the dark thoughts away but it wasn't easy.

Sherlock. Mycroft's lawyer. The truth.

He kept repeating those three things inwardly until he finally convinced himself that it was more than enough to keep him safe.

His bunk was ridiculously uncomfortable but eventually he was so exhausted from the constant struggle with himself that he fell asleep.

He was feeling a lot better during the second night. Earlier that day Lestrade dropped by to inform him that Sherlock found a new trail but he disappeared before John even comprehended his words. When he did, a spark of warmth danced in his chest. Sherlock finding a trail meant solving the case in a matter of days, hours even. Who cares about the police failing to do their job if the most brilliant detective in the world does his? John felt almost happy.

When he was finally let out of custody he was pleasantly surprised when he saw his friend waiting for him with a smile on his face and managed to smile weakly in response.

"Come with me." Sherlock said mysteriously in greeting. For people who didn't know him it might have seemed rather cold, but truth was that John was so used to it that it didn't actually matter.

"Hello to you too." the doctor said without reproach.

"Yes, hi." the younger man replied, having already started walking towards the staircase.

It was _that_ moment when John felt a prick of momentary annoyance for he really didn't feel like playing games but relented from snapping at the detective. It was just the way the man was after all but John wanted to know the truth and he wanted to know it now.

"Sherlock. Tell me what you found." he commanded but followed his friend anyway.

For a second Sherlock wanted to ignore the question and just keep the doctor in the dark but he luckily realised it was the worst possible thing he could do. He was so excited with his discoveries that he almost forgot what it was all about. He didn't stop walking but promptly started his explanation.

"Yesterday one of my informants called me. He mentioned a suspicious conversation he'd overheard and once he gave me the location, I went there to do some research." He paused for a moment when they both nearly collided with some young constable.

"In fact three people confirmed that they heard and saw two men talking about a murdered woman. There were no reports of unsolved murders or kidnapping of women in London last week except Mary, of course.

These two were seen not far from Portland Square which is no further than a 30 minute walk from Cavers' Street. Nobody was capable of telling me who these two are or where they live but I've been tracking their moves for the last two days and I'll know where to find them in a matter of a few hours."

When Sherlock finished, John was speechless. The soliloquy wasn't a proof of the detective's brilliance (he only had a few unofficial testimonies to work on after all) but the doctor he knew that doing this kind of research with so little to work on usually took a week or more and definitely not just a day, even when it was Sherlock doing it. John was certain that his friend didn't rest even for a moment.

"You did all of that in one day?" he voiced his thoughts quietly and Sherlock just shrugged, not looking at him. "It's...great. Thank you." John added a bit creakily.

He was extremely grateful for the man's dedication, glad that his horror was going to end soon and a huge weight dropped off his shoulders but he still had a long road to go before he could feel actual happiness again. The sense of relief was the best he could muster.

Sherlock turned and took a quick glance at him, noticed the still mournful expression. He saw a tiny bit of tension leave his friend's face but it was obviously not enough to smooth the lines suffering had carved in it.

The detective realised with a surprise that he actually missed the soft and warm smile that used to appear on John's face so often. Now it seemed that all that was left were just wrinkles, a sad remnant of the good times that had been cut short so brutally.

Sherlock swore to himself to do everything that was in his power to protect his doctor from any more pain and torment even if he had to take it himself. John didn't deserve to suffer and Sherlock genuinely wanted to see him smile again. Not that he would ever admit that.

They remained silent while walikng downstairs and after reaching the entrance hall they froze on the spot.

Through the glass door of the Yard they saw a crowd much bigger than the previous ones. Not just reporters but a fair amount of onlookers as well. The group spotted them and erupted with unintelligible shouts. John and Sherlock hesitated for a moment but then they firmly moved forward.

When they exited the building, the crowd almost crushed them. As the duo made their way through, dozens of violently yelled questions mixed together, making it hard to understand a word. Some, however, were crystal clear.

"Is that true, John? Did you kill your wife?"

"What were the reasons for your arrest, doctor Watson? Are the accusations completely groundless?"

"Sherlock, why weren't you allowed in the investigation?"

"Is the police wrong?"

Neither the detective nor the doctor said anything.

.

A few hours later John was doing his best to focus on Telling's voice. The lawyer tried to convince him that even when Sherlock would finally find the killers he should still be prepared to defend himself, just in case.

At one point John abandoned any attempts to listen as his thoughts trailed off to that horrible night. He tried not to think about it but there was no way he could get it out of his head. He could picture two men enter his flat, unnoticed by anyone. He saw them come up to Mary. Saw her fight them, try to escape. Saw a knife being lifted and lowered, over and over again and every time the blade disappeared he felt as if it was him who was being stabbed but instead of pain, every stab elicited a new surge of pure, unadulterated rage. He wanted to jump to his feet, grab his gun and run into the night, search for the monsters who murdered his wife and send them straight to hell. It seemed like the only fair thing to do, law and principles be damned.

A noise downstairs brought him back to reality and a moment later Sherlock and Lestrade entered the flat.

"Well?" John demanded immediately. "What do you have?"

Sherlock regarded him calmly.

"We have located their flat and we're going there in a few minutes."

"Great, now let me just grab my coat and..."

"No, John. You can't go with us." Lestrade interrupted him. "I wanted you to know but I can't let you come."

John looked at the DI with indignation. He knew it was logical that he shouldn't go with them but he didn't really care about logic at the moment.

"Are you joking? You come here to tell me this and expect me to stay behind?" he spat.

Sherlock glared at Lestrade.

"I told you was a stupid idea." he growled and the DI bowed his head apologetically. Lestrade didn't want to keep John in the dark but now regretted his decision. Sherlock turned to face the doctor.

"John, I know you want to go, but he's right. At least about that." he added with a sneer. "You really need to stay here. It's for the best, trust me."

Their gazes locked for a moment and after a short, silent struggle John gave up.

"Alright." he said resignedly. "But call me, call me as soon you'll know anything, okay?"

"Of course." Sherlock answered promptly and John nodded in gratitude.

The detective then turned away and left the flat with Lestrade in tow. He was optimistic. True, the trail might not have been unquestionable but in the end it actually turned out promising. The lack of traces in John and Mary's flat was something that still bothered Sherlock though. Was it possible that slovens like the suspects could leave so little evidence behind them? Well, it was. Maybe not very likely, but possible nonetheless.

Twenty minutes later he, the DI as well as a small group of officers who volunteered to help were surrounding a dingy, dirty block where the suspects lived. They even had a warrant. Lestrade had to once more break the protocol to get it but it was a lot easier and quicker than waiting and he hated waiting almost as much as the infuriating genius.

Together with an officer they approached the door and Lestrade knocked vigorously, causing a few bits of paint to flake off. A moment later there was a rustle inside and wobbly footsteps resounded. A male voice barked from behind the door.

"Who's there? What do you want?"

"It's the police, sir, open the door! We need to talk to you!" Lestrade called out.

There was silence for a moment and then a sudden noise of running.

* * *

_I forgot to say that earlier, but if any of the readers live in London - I'm sorry. The locations are completely made up and probably make no sense._

_Okay, so what do you think? Comment please, reading your comments does wonders to motivate me to keep writing ;)_


	13. A friendly reminder

_Delay again, sorry. Thank you everyone who commented, favourited or followed this story!_

_I hope you'll like the new chapter!  
_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

Everybody tensed but Lestrade wasted no time and immediately put his hand to his ear to speak to the shortwave transmitter.

"Watch the fire exits, they are trying to escape."

No dramatic door kicking was necessary as no longer than five minutes later both suspects were brought back handcuffed by two officers.

"Good work, gentlemen." Lestrade commended and then firmly quieted the captured men who were very noisily expressing their thoughts on the police. Sherlock eyed the two men for a moment, fighting some strange, undefined emotion. He forced himself to tear his eyes away from them and turned to the door.

"I have to go inside. Give me your gun." he said impatiently and extended his hand to Lestrade who looked at him with wide eyes.

"Oh, that won't be necessary, sir!" one of the officers, Jerry, called out. "Travis will let us in any moment."

As if on cue, the door lock creaked and a second later the youngest member of the group, Travis Mealey let them inside, smiling good-naturedly in the process. As Lestrade passed him in the door he patted his shoulder briefly. The young man's quick thinking saved the DI a lot of effort not for the first time.

Sherlock completely ignored everyone and immediately got down to business. After another five minutes everything was clear.

.

John was pacing restlessly, trying to collect himself. It's been an hour already so why has no-one called him yet? He was hoping that if not Sherlock then at least Lestrade would inform him as soon as they knew something but there were still no news.

Finally, after another agonisingly long fifteen minutes the familiar silhouette of his friend appeared in the doorway and John turned to him expectantly.

"Why didn't you call? Is it them? Do you have them?" he blurted out on one breath.

If he paid any heed to Sherlock's expression he wouldn't have to ask. The detective's face was twisted in a grimace reminiscent of that of someone who just got slapped. Usually John would be able to identify that expression in an instant but he was far too agitated. Sherlock seemed to be gathering himself for a second before he eventually managed to say what he had to say.

"I was wrong."

Upon hearing that John fell dumb. The three little words hit him with the force of a collapsing building. If possible, it was even worse for Sherlock - every word he uttered was like a piece of white-hot iron that that scalded his throat as if in a form of punishment.

When he had rummaged the suspects' flat he found the evidence of their guilt after a few minutes. They did commit a murder, there was no doubt about that. The problem was it wasn't _this_ murder. The body of a woman that was locked inside the men's freezer was an definite proof of that and after a few questions it was clear that they had nothing to do with Mary's death. Realising that was a surprisingly painful blow for the detective.

They stood quietly for a moment and Sherlock was having a hard time enduring the heavy silence. The doctor eventually cleared his throat and spoke in a voice that was barely audible.

"It's not them."

"No. I thought it was, but I was wrong." Sherlock repeated gravely and John swallowed.

"But you said it was promising, that it was very likely that you've found them. There were so many things that matched, I don't understand..."

"I know what I said." the taller man said abruptly. It came out a bit more harsh than he intended but John didn't even seem to notice.

Sherlock briefly considered telling the doctor that the men he'd found actually were killers who had been discovered, so to speak, by chance but he realised he didn't want to say that. It was...a relatively decent excuse but an excuse nonetheless and that was something he despised.

John looked away. How on Earth was it possible? Sherlock seemed so convinced, so certain that he was right. 'Ha, exactly. He _seemed_ certain which did not mean he was.' John thought resignedly. He was so sure that the case has been solved that the bitter realisation that the nightmare was not going to end anytime soon caused a new wave of fear and doubt crash upon him.

A fleeting vision, worse than any other of the previous ones flashed through his head. Him, in a bright orange uniform, looking at a an empty, gray corridor from behind bars.

He chased the vision away in panic. Now he was just exaggerating. The fact that one trail turned out to be fake didn't mean he was sentenced to end up in prison. No matter what, he was still convinced that Sherlock was eventually going to solve it.

John forced his constricted lungs to loosen up a bit and looked at his friend.

"Shame." he creaked. "I thought we had that behind ourselves. But in this case..." He looked over his shoulder at Telling who was observing him intently.

"Yes, doctor Watson. We have to continue." the man said in a firm tone. John nodded shortly and turned back to Sherlock.

What he saw took him aback. In a matter of seconds the detective changed impossibly. His shoulders suddenly hunched, curly haired head bowed slightly so that John couldn't see his face and his whole body seemed to tense as if he got electrocuted. He didn't look even remotely like his usual self. Then he started retreating, turned on his heel and without another word he disappeared on the staircase.

"Sherlock, where are you..." John started but the only answer he got was the sound of footsteps treading down quickly. The first impulse told him to go right after his friend but he stopped himself before even making a full step. He figured that Sherlock really needed some time for himself. John was aware how hard it always was for him to accept making a mistake and now it must have been even worse.

The doctor decided to leave his friend be. No matter how well Sherlock was hiding it from everyone(including himself), John knew that the detective was affected by what had happened and felt that his friend deserved much more than just a moment of privacy.

He cast one last look at the stairs and then turned to Telling who had already extracted a few documents from his briefcase and was sitting on the couch with a notebook in his hands.

.

After crudely getting rid of the nagging reporters Sherlock stormed down Baker Street, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. He just kept walking forward, not really heading anywhere. His long strides carried him quickly across the cold streets and soon he found himself over the murky, frigid waters of the Thames. Anger was welling inside him, twisting and scalding his insides.

Anger mainly at himself.

How could he has been so stupid? The trail was a joke from the very beginning and he only fooled himself thinking it was worth something. All the research he'd done, all the witnesses he had questioned were just a cover of the fact that he was at loss of what to do. For the first few hours after Sam called him he was truly spurting with energy, clinging to the thought that this might be it, the one trace he needed to finally conclude this madness and fulfil his promise to John. Soon, however, the realisation that the trace was useless nested itself in his head but he was so blinded with the crass _hope_ that he missed the obvious.

Finding two murderers wasn't reassuring in the slightest. These men were just some random, unimportant fools the apprehension of whom couldn't in any way provide safety to John so why should _he_ care about discovering them? Lestrade's argumentation that he had solved a case the existence of which no-one even knew about didn't convince the young detective either.

The situation wasn't good. As days passed, more and more trails were growing cold. It seemed that there was no path to follow, even the insurance policy seemed to be a dead end. Sherlock suspected there was something to it but there was no way he couldn't prove his assumptions, at least not yet. He was more than a little displeased when he heard that the police decided that trail was useless. Connecting the policy and the murder in the first place might have actually been the only thing the Yarders got right (they just had the wrong suspect) and they had just abandoned it thoughtlessly, making Sherlock livid.

The awareness that he was practically powerless at the moment was crippling. Ever he dwelled deeper, more dark thoughts filled his restless mind, the most fresh memory being the hardest one to bear.

The look on John's face. A look of disappointment, hurt, pain, fear. Upon seeing it, something inside Sherlock snapped. He didn't know what was that something, why it happened on that particular moment or why did it happen at all. All he knew was that the sight of John made him feel as if someone closed a vice on his heart. The notion lasted half a second but it was still a shock for the detective. Unable to comprehend its meaning he escaped, feeling like a wounded animal trying to hide its weakness from the rest of the world. Doing it was stupid and illogical and he still couldn't help it.

But enough was enough. Sentiment was hardly helpful when one needed to keep a straight head.

Sherlock ordered himself to regain control. He tightened his grip on the metal barrier he was leaning on, pushed himself away from it and started briskly walking towards the street. He was thinking about making yet another call when he felt an impulse to immediately go back to Baker Street. He tried to shake it away but the stubborn thought craftily eluded being captured and crushed. Sherlock had no idea where it has come from but since it was making it impossible for him to focus he decided that satisfying it was the only choice if he was to work properly. Besides, his intuition barely ever failed him.

It took him fifteen minutes to go back. Once he entered the building and the shouting outside became quieter Sherlock immediately heard that raised voices were coming from upstairs as well. He was greatly surprised that his heart started beating a tiny bit faster as he quickly treaded up the stairs. He was certain that it was not an effect of exhaustion.

When he stopped on the threshold of the flat he saw a group of people engaged in a heated argument. John, Telling and two others – they were Mary's parents – were shouting at each other, all their words melting into one unintelligible mass. The lawyer was the calmest but in order to placate the others he had to be loud too. They were all so occupied they didn't notice Sherlock who remained in silence for a moment and just listened on.

"I told you already! How can you even suggest that..." John's hoarse voice resounded but he was interrupted by Mary's stepfather.

"Don't give me this shit and explain! Police doesn't arrest people for no reason so the explanation had better be good!" the man fumed.

"Mr Richardson, please calm down! This doesn't lead anywhere." Telling tried to interfere but Mary's father didn't even look at him to him.

"I was tolerant at first, I've been putting up with those fucking vultures and was on your side you even though I knew that something was up, but no more of that. You either tell me what's going on right now or I'll squeeze it out of you myself!" Richardson seethed and stepped forward, standing dangerously close to John. His wife grabbed him tightly by the arm.

"Please Will, stop! You can't just..." she pleaded but he hushed her. John voice sounded painfully desperate when he spoke.

"William, I swear I had nothing to do with it! It's all a misunderstanding, I would have never..." he stopped when Richardson grabbed his shirt.

"Tell the truth, you bloody..."

"Enough."

Every head abruptly turned in the direction of the door. Sherlock's low, formidable growl echoed in the room, seeming to hover over the group, daring anyone to say a word or even make a sound. No one took the risk.

The detective slowly entered the flat and fixed three of the four people with a cold, piercing glare. His eyes stayed longer on Richardson who was so surprised by the predacious intensity of the stare that he looked away.

When Sherlock set his eyes on John the cold was gone. The doctor's pained expression almost made the detective wince but he forced himself to keep his voice steely when he addressed the others.

"What is going on here?" he demanded. He knew the answer naturally but felt the irrepressible need to show everyone where their place was.

Telling cleared his throat to ease the tension and gestured to Mary's parents.

"Mrs and Mr Richardson came here to...pay a visit doctor Watson." the lawyer said with a tinge of distaste. "As you see Mr Holmes, things have gotten a bit out of hand."

"Clearly." Sherlock said venomously and eyed the Richardsons again, making them visibly uncomfortable. William Richardson then somewhat regained his composure and spoke to the detective in a truculent tone.

"And you are?" he started but then frowned as he studied the tall man's pale face. "Ah right, it's you who lives here, I saw you before. You are..."

"Sherlock Holmes. A friend of the man you were about to insult."

Sherlock said that in a perfectly even voice but only a deaf man wouldn't hear what was hidden beneath that facade of calm. The detective had a remarkable talent of making someone anxious with just one sentence, word or even a single look and he mercilessly used that talent on Richardson, taking all of the man's self-confidence away.

William locked his eyes with Sherlock's only for half a second and then averted his gaze to look at John.

"Listen, I just want it all sorted. I want to know who killed my daughter." he muttered. His voice was still accusatory but it was much less evident, as if he feared Sherlock's reaction. John was about to answer but the detective was faster.

"As do we. For now, however, do restrain from visiting." Sherlock said sternly.

Richardson looked at him again and it seemed like he may try to say something but his wife grabbed his arm again and spoke before he could cause them more trouble.

"Come on Will, let's go. Please, honey."

The pained plea in her voice made his frown dissipate. He nodded briefly and without another word the pair walked out of the flat. Heavy silence fell behind them.

* * *

_I understand that the resolve of the last chapter's 'cliffhanger'(okay, not really) might have been rather disappointing, sorry ^^' I hope you liked it anyway. I certainly enjoyed writing the scene with Sherlock showing his dominance!  
_

_Pleas leave a comment so that I'll know what you think about my doings:) I am sucker for feedback, it's my cocaine! Be my suppliers :]  
_


	14. Highlights and shadows

_Okay, not that much delay this time. This chapter is a bit longer than usual and it will have to satisfy you at least until Friday, I think. englishtutor, don't tell me I didn't try XD_

_Again, thank you everyone who decided to comment, follow or favourite this story of mine! You are the best._

_Enjoy!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock.'_

* * *

Mary's parents' visit was a huge blow for John. Sherlock tried his best to assure the doctor that it all didn't matter but of course he couldn't fully understand what it meant to his friend.

John didn't even blame William for accusing him, the man had lost his daughter and wanted someone to be held responsible. Bad luck was that he was given the idea that it was John who should be that person. Still, having to listen to all those horrible words hurt like hell.

Richardson has always been quite a hotspur and when Mary first introduced them, John felt like a schoolboy - the man had an aura of frankly alarming rigidity that could make almost everyone feel intimidated and his wife wasn't very good at handling his fiery temperament. Mary sometimes complained about how withdrawn her mother had become after Mr Morstan died and that it got even worse when she met William. It wasn't like Richardson abused her or was aggressive towards her, but truth was that she was completely dominated by him. She didn't seem to mind, she loved him and felt safe with him and simply avoided conflicts in fear that they could end with her being alone again.

With time John started to get along with them, but a year was apparently not enough to build solid trust.

The doctor envied his friend for being so immune to harsh words. He wished he could cut himself off from feeling them bite deeply into his heart but try as he might, he couldn't. His mask was still in place but it was inexorably wasting away under the constant attacks.

The press was becoming increasingly unpleasant as well. John wasn't surprised how easily the reporters and the public jumped from relatively delicate questions to blatant accusations, he'd experienced that before but it didn't change the fact the felt like a cornered animal.

.

Days went by. Saunders was still a pain in the arse, the media kept nagging. A slight highlight was the phone call John received three days after the painful visit – William understood the cruelty of what he'd done and sincerely apologised to the doctor. John gladly accepted the apology, but the bitter taste of the hateful words was indelible.

As for Sherlock...well. If John didn't know him any better, he would be seriously worried. Finally, the detective came into the light again and paid another visit to the Yard.

His 'conversation' with Saunders quickly turned into a regular battle but for Sherlock it was glaringly obvious that the DI was just desperately trying to convince everyone that he could solve the case, while in reality he was at loss of what to do. What he had on John was enough to continue the investigation against him but in no way enough to try and press charges, which basically meant a stalemate.

The case was big and Saunders was having a particularly hard time accepting his own mistake but as soon as they started arguing Sherlock realised that making the idiotic policeman budge was just a matter of well chosen words.

The DI was still was trying to fight but he was losing confidence with every second.

"Listen, I do appreciate your efforts, Mr Holmes, but I'm sure you realise I'm breaking every rule by allowing you anywhere near this investigation. The only reason why you are still here is because _I_ am allowing it, so do not push your luck." Jason drawled out, scowling at Sherlock whose nostrils flared dangerously.

"Why are you allowing it, then? Why am I here if you're so convinced that you can handle this on your own?" the young detective growled lowly, sinisterly stretching the words.

Saunders hesitated and at that moment Sherlock knew he had him.

"Let me tell you why." Holmes said with barely concealed derision. "You're doing it because you have no other choice, because you are in a fix and everybody knows it. It's not the first time your persistence got you into trouble but it _is_ the first time you and your team have messed up in a case this loud, am I correct? That's why you're trying to convince yourself and others that you're right, you're so blinded with the unwavering trust in your own infallibility that you can't accept that you've got it all wrong. It's probably because of some issues from your childhood but frankly, I couldn't care less."

His last words were all but an ominous hiss. He made a slight pause to enjoy the perplexed look on Saunders' face and then he spoke again.

"Whatever your problem is, it's definitely not an excuse for being this incompetent. If you don't want to become known as the cop who had screwed up because of bloody obstinacy and shortsightedness, I strongly suggest you start listening to _me_."

The utter certainty with which he delievered it left no place for even attempting to argue further.

It got him what he wanted. For anyone else the infinitely small change in the DI's expression might have been unnoticeable, but the young detective saw it and a lot of tension left his shoulders when he realised that the policeman was finally starting to open his eyes.

Sherlock knew the man was still going to be difficult but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Joining the investigation meant obtaining the access to the official files and evidence but Sherlock didn't really care about that, he knew more than the police anyway. What mattered was that divisions from other cities could be talked into joining as well. At that point he was certain that the killer was not in London anymore so every kind of support was important.

There was some excitement, for he was getting closer to solving the case but it was laced with bitter undertones and...strained, for the lack of a better word. What he was about to do was not going to be pleasant.

Still, as long as plans filled his thinking space, it was fine. There was no time to ponder about what could go wrong or the fact that it was going to be a very long time before his and John's life could even start to resemble normalcy and that some things would be changed forever.

Ah, John. When was the last time he'd seen him? He realised it must have been at least two days and felt a pang of guilt. John was far from recovering and although he had the support of his other friends, it was obvious that he was craving the detective's presence in particular. Sherlock decided that it was about time to show up.

When he returned to 221B, they spent hours in the living room together. There wasn't much talking but the silence was far from uncomfortable. It was almost like in the old days. Almost.

They both retreated to their bedrooms around midnight.

Again, John couldn't sleep. He was just lying in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about the nightmarish reality. In the bedroom downstairs Sherlock was restless as well, but not exactly for the same reasons that kept his friend awake.

Sherlock's brain was working at top speed. During the last few days, as he excavated the darkest depths of his mind in search of answers, he stumbled upon something and the people he had contact with helped the memory resurface. It was labelled as 'deleted', but apparently the label was wrong. It took him time to discover what was hidden in the encoded and damaged file but when he eventually succeeded, a new strategy formed in his head and this time he wasn't even entertaining the possibility of failing.

'Cam'. Or alternatively, 'The Cameraman', as some called him. Sherlock was about to meet him again.

It was risky, very risky but he didn't care in the slightest.

.

When John came downstairs around 7 in the morning Sherlock was already dressed and hurriedly sipping his coffee in the kitchen. John greeted the detective and sat down across from him.

It was the first time in a week when he had a chance to take a close look at his friend in full light and what he saw didn't please him. Two weeks of restless search were enough to leave a mark on Sherlock. The usually tight shirt almost hung on his haggard frame, the buttons that used to strain not to pop were now loosely holding the expensive piece of wear together. The trademark cheekbones were sharper than John remembered and dark circles formed under the detective's bright eyes, creating a rather ghastly contrast. John heaved a sigh.

"You look terrible." he stated.

"So do you." came a prompt reply.

John fell silent for a moment. It was true. John felt as if he had aged years in the last two weeks and the effects of malnourishment and lack of sleep were even more evident on him than his friend. The doctor was _very_ slowly adjusting his mind to the new realm and caring about himself was not his major concern.

Even though he didn't really feel hungry, he decided it was time to restore some energy.

"Do you want some breakfast?" he asked, glancing around the kitchen.

"No." the detective said shortly, not even looking at him. John frowned.

"Yes, you do. And even if you don't, it doesn't matter. You have to eat something." he insisted.

Sherlock only lifted his cup in response and showed it to him, as if he actually thought it would be enough to make John drop the matter. It was not, naturally.

"Sherlock, no amount of milk and sugar in your coffee is going to convince me." John said adamantly, earning himself a rather childish grumble in response.

"Why did you ask if you don't care what I say?"

"I'm British. I was born this way."

They looked at each other and snorted in the same moment. It felt so strange to John, as if he hadn't laughed in years. His face was stiff from all the hardship, muscles that used to allow him to smile were now refusing to cooperate, but for those few seconds he felt as if the air around him became a lot lighter. Even his throat seemed to have loosened up a bit when he spoke again.

"Anyway, coffee is not a replacement for food. So..." John got up, opened the fridge and took some eggs out. There was a lot of food thanks to the lovely Mrs Hudson, but the doctor really didn't feel like being creative.

"...scrambled eggs, then." The tone of his voice left no room for arguing.

Soon, a delicious scent spread in the kitchen and Sherlock realised with a shock that his stomach started growling. To no avail he tried to somehow silence it.

John was smiling slightly when he put a plate in front of him.

"See, I told you. Even you can't feed merely on the energy of the Universe." the doctor said as he put a generous portion on the plate.

Sherlock stared at him.

"The _what_?" he asked incredulously. John's smile widened a bit. Same old Sherlock.

"Nevermind. You probably deleted it."

"Probably." Sherlock said with a tinge of amusement and reciprocated his friend's smile.

Their moods brigtened a bit, the two men enjoyed the simple but satiating meal in companionable silence. In the quiet and each other's presence they both found reassurance they needed so much. Neither would admit it of course, the detective not even to himself, but they didn't have to. The other always understood.

Unfortunately, the moment couldn't last forever. Once he finished eating, Sherlock got up with a weird sort of reluctance and straightened his suit jacket.

"I have a few phone calls to make and then I'll be leaving."

He had no idea why he said that. He almost never said such obvious things so why did he feel the need to share it with John? Some weird things have been happening to his brain lately, presumably due to exhaustion. Yes, that was probably it. Or maybe he was just afraid.

The doctor eyed him shortly and his eyes sparked with something Sherlock didn't recognise but it disappeared almost immediately.

"Yeah, sure. I guess I'll just prepare everything, Telling will be here any moment." John finally said.

"Right." Right? No, nothing was right.

Soon, the detective left.

.

She ran a hand through her hair and looked at herself in the mirror. The last two weeks have worn her out as well. Having to watch John grieve again was hard to bear. She tried her best to ease his pain, aid him and Sherlock but it was difficult to get to them.

Ah, men and their stupid aversion to showing their feelings. How could they not realise that withholding emotions almost always resulted in them bursting out in the least expected moment and causing even more damage? Even for a woman with her experience it was still a mystery.

Martha Hudson sighed heavily and slowly treaded upstairs. As usual, she knocked on the open door and softly addressed the doctor who was standing by the window.

"John, are you ready? Our cab is waiting."

John almost jumped at the sound of her voice. Every since Sherlock left he was finding it increasingly hard to focus.

He absently nodded and followed Mrs Hudson outside. Luckily, no reporters were waiting for them this time. As they drove through London, John got lost in his head again. Thoughts about Mary and Sherlock were mixing into one, unintelligible mess in his muddled mind.

Now that he was heading to the graveyard, he wasn't sure anymore if taking Mrs Hudson with him was a good idea. At first he wanted to go alone. It's been just two days since his last visit but the need to go there again was irrepressible. He knew, however, that if he was to go by himself he would most certainly break down, just like he did the previous time.

Thus, he decided to ask the old lady for company. He was hoping that her presence would help him remain in relative control of himself even though he knew she was fully expecting him to cry on her shoulder. Now he was starting to think that he might break even with her being there.

He was truly exhausted from pretending to be doing fine and wished to get it all out but he was afraid of letting his mask slip again. It was so brittle and frail from all the blows it had to endure that he was certain it would shatter the moment he let his guard down. Deep down, however, he knew that it was inevitable anyway.

And as if it wasn't hard enough already, now he was also starting to worry about Sherlock. During breakfast John noticed something about his friend, something he couldn't quite place. After Sherlock left, the uneasy feeling grew stronger. John texted the detective and the man replied, but didn't provide any information. The doctor even briefly considered calling Mycroft and asking if he knew anything about Sherlock's plans but he abandoned that idea, figuring he was just exaggerating.

Still, the uneasiness didn't dissipate. John was desperately praying that Sherlock found the right trail and would soon emerge with the killer in his hands but he couldn't help feeling concerned about his friend's well-being. He all too well knew how much Sherlock could lose himself in an investigation and now that he couldn't be there to tone him down, John felt really helpless.

Mrs Hudson was clinging to his arm as he walked towards the grave. Just like three years earlier, in circumstances so similar to these, being there sorely reminded John how much he has lost.

He swallowed. His throat was on fire and so were his eyes but he withheld the tears. Finally, he and the old lady arrived at Mary's resting place. Mrs Hudson started bustling around, rearranging the withering bouquets and muttering something to John, but the doctor wasn't listening.

'Hello, sweetheart.' he greeted his wife inwardly, the rest of the world forgotten. 'I know I was here two days ago but I just can't stay away. You are everywhere I look but here I feel I am the closest to you, though...yeah.'

He paused. Saying that even in his own head was excruciating. He clenched his jaw and tried to take a proper breath but his lungs seemed to have ceased working. He continued.

'I love you so, so much Mary. I don't know what to do. I know he will always be there for me, but...with you I have lost a part of myself. I am not whole anymore. How am I supposed to keep on living like this?'

Bitterness, sorrow and anger welled up in his chest, leaving even less place for his lungs to fill with air. He just stood there, feeling as if he was sinking. The increasing, albeit imaginary pressure was crushing him mercilessly, threatening to reduce him to a pitiful speck any moment.

But he fought. With a tremendous effort he started recalling the best and warmest memories, hoping they would help him resurface from the darkness. They did before.

The day Mary said yes. Seeing Sherlock again. Having Mary kiss and embrace him, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh, curse. Madly running around the city side by side (or a step behind) with his friend. And many more.

Blood, tears and despair were now looming in the background of every picture he recalled but he managed to collect himself more or less.

Suddenly, the old lady wrapped her hands around his arm.

"It's okay, John. It's alright." she soothed.

He opened his mouth but no sound came out. The touch was comforting but he didn't trust his voice enough to say anything.

Mrs Hudson spoke again, in a voice rather uncharacteristically dark.

"Sherlock will find this bloody bastard."

Upon hearing that, John immediately tensed. She noticed and looked at him worriedly.

"Sorry love, I shouldn't have. You okay?" she asked uncertainly, squeezing his arm a bit tighter.

John nodded and gave a short 'yeah'. He knew it must have been difficult for her as well, Mary was almost like a daughter to her. He rubbed her gloved hands reassuringly.

The cause of him tensing was not the mention of the killer. Mrs Hudson reminded him of his worry about Sherlock an he barely refrained from reaching for his phone.

With a heavy heart he soundlessly addressed his wife again.

'It all hurts so damn much, dear. None of this should have ever happened. Why did it have to be you? God, if only I had gone home earlier, if I took a cab instead of that bloody walk it wouldn't have come to this! It's killing me Mary, I know you wouldn't want me to blame myself but I can't help it. Why do I always have to be too late? Now Sherlock's up to God knows what and I can't even muster the strength to make sure he'll be alright. Why, why do I always fail to protect those I love?'

Has he been talking out loud, his last words would have been a hysterical wail. Still, he remained calm outside.

A few moments of silence passed before he finally said his goodbye and left the graveyard together with the old lady.

* * *

_It was sappy but I made myself sad :/_

_Don't worry, Sherlock's plan will be exlpained soon! Are you wondering who is this Cam person? _

_Also, any Star Trek folks here? There was one small reference, did you catch it?_

_Okay, enough! I hope you liked this chapter. I would be most grateful if you left a review, you know how much I love them ;)_


	15. Cam

_Sorry about the late update! I had to rewrite most of this chapter, the first version was just . . . no. This one isn't particularly impressive either, but I think it's a bit better._

_Anyway, this chapter is more of a filler than anything else. It's not too integral with the rest of the story, but let's just say it's my bow to a canon villain and also material for a potential sequel(though that's unlikely to happen)._

_Thanks again, everyone who commented, favourited or/and followed this story! Especially you, englishtutor, for giving me invaluable advices concerning grammar and style. While I can't guarantee I'll be writing everything correctly from now on, I can promise to do my best ;)_

_Enjoy, folks!_

_I don't own 'Sherlock.'_

* * *

There was a reason why the memory was supposed to be deleted.

It was linked to a short, recently concluded part of his life, a part he wasn't particularly fond of. It seemed, however, that it was too deeply burnt in his mind to be removed permanently.

Unable to delete them, Sherlock covered many memories from the hiatus with deftly crafted layers of facts and calculations to avoid being distracted. Alas, as the covering layers creaked and cracked in the tempest of emotions and insecurities, some concealed memories resurfaced, Cam being one of them. Now that the name came into the light again, Sherlock realised that trying to forget about it in the first place wasn't the wisest move. He really didn't know what to expect, and the details he recalled about Cam weren't too encouraging.

Sooner than he would prefer to, the detective found himself nearing an inconspicuous looking building in the suburbs of London. The area looked far from hostile; every neighbouring house was a picture of a model, lawful life bereft of any thrill and character. There were some apparent attempts at nuance – unusually coloured roof tiles here, 'interesting' elevation finish there. People inside were blissfully unaware that their efforts to be original were futile; the general greyness intrinsic to the early spring aura of England successfully dulled all the colours, reducing them just to various hues of grey. Even the slowly appearing blotches of lush green failed to bring life to the image. Any chiaroscuro effects that could appear had the Sun tore its way through the thick layer of clouds were nonexistent, which made even the more complicated structures look flat and stock. At a first glance, Cam's house seemed to be blending perfectly in its monotonous environment, but unlike most people Sherlock knew where to look to notice the rather well subtle traits of the dubious life of its inhabitants.

Before he even reached for the doorbell, the door opened. A tall, burly man in a well-tailored suit emerged and eyed the detective with something that was probably supposed to be intimidation.

"Ah, Holmes. Boss said you would come," he said unceremoniously and gestured for Sherlock to come inside. The young man almost snorted - the reception reminded him preposterously of a scene from one of those silly gangster movies John was so keen on watching. It wasn't a surprise, though.

As they quickly passed through the house, Sherlock realised that quite a lot must have changed in Cam's realm since the last time they had met. Apparently the man was doing nicely and feeling very confident. The plenteous (verging on excessive) decor was only one of the proofs of that.

The two men reached Cam's office and Sherlock braced himself.

When they entered, he barely withheld a cringe at the sight of the middle-aged man perched in a posh, leather armchair that contrasted ridiculously with his informal clothes. Aside from the wear, Cam was looking quite well; the lines in his oddly noble face seemed to have smoothened, making him look younger than he did two years earlier. However, Sherlock immediately noticed something more about his expression, something that wasn't there before.

They studied each other in silence for a short moment. A small smile crossed Cam's features as he folded his hands on the shining, oaken desk and spoke in a voice that was a gruesome cross between condescension and raillery, just like the young Holmes remembered it.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. It's been a while, hasn't it? I admit I was starting to think you wouldn't come," Cam greeted blandly and gestured for the detective to sit down. Sherlock bit pride back and took the seat.

"Hello, Charles," he said, keeping his tone and expression as neutral as possible. "I guess you are aware why I am here."

Cam's smile widened.

"Ah, down to business right away, as always! You haven't changed too much, boy. As for why you're here – sure I do know, I specialise in meeting people's needs. Don't tell me you've forgotten!" he almost chirped, making Sherlock shift a bit.

It was a funny thing with Cam. He didn't look half intimidating, lazily sprawled in his chair and prating like an old man, and yet he was managing to make the great Sherlock Holmes feel somewhat uneasy.

"But hey, it's not very gentlemanly of us to jump straight to business after . . . God, how long has it been?"

The detective clenched his jaw. He was perfectly aware that Cam knew exactly how long it was, the man didn't make the slightest effort to hide it. He simply wanted to get Sherlock to talk, like he always did.

Their connection was very simple, in fact. They had 'cooperated' for some time in the beginning of the mission to destroy Moriarty's network. Cam might have been a small timer(at least back then), but Sherlock quickly realised that he was indeed a very valuable contact, albeit not a very righteous one. He was not some sort of a mysterious genius, but one couldn't call him a fool.

Cam was tradesman, in a manner of speaking. He didn't trade physical goods like precious works of art, guns or drugs; what he was interested in was much more valuable.

The main object of his trades was information. He knew more about people than they knew about themselves and many were willing to pay a high price for either obtaining such information or keeping it a secret. He didn't only do blackmail, naturally - he collected all kinds of information and sold it to those who desperately needed it. Sherlock was now after one particular sort of data, but during the hiatus his needs were much more vast and he often had no choice but to use resources of this kind.

Those were dark days during which the detective did things he wasn't proud of. Cam never wanted money from him, even when Sherlock offered small fortunes for minor bits of information; the payment had mainly the form of suspiciously small favours.

When at one point Sherlock left England, his contact with Cam broke quite suddenly and the criminal was more than displeased with such a turn of events. Sherlock fully expected eventual consequences, but as time passed and important issues concerning Moriarty's network had to be taken care of, Cam ended up dismissed. When after the detective's return he still didn't try to make contact, he was soon hidden away along with other memories.

Sherlock heaved a mental sigh. Good times could never last long enough.

"Two years," he finally said, his voice quieter than usual. Truth was he had no choice but to join the game if he was to get what he needed and not get killed in the process.

"Two years! Damn me, how time flies," Cam erupted, throwing his hands dramatically, accenting his words in excess. "But it seems you were doing quite well without me! I am not complaining though, I had a lot of work lately but all is going well. Better than ever, actually."

The cordiality in his voice was so perfectly feigned that it could fool almost everyone, but Sherlock knew what was hidden under the saccharine coating. He chose to remain silent.

Cam spoke again, the layer of sugar lessened significantly.

"Right. You're not very chatty today, are you? Well, I guess I can understand that. All the media nonsense, moronic cops and that poor sod of a doctor you had to deal with . . . it had to be hard."

His jaw still clenched, Sherlock swallowed and could almost swear he felt the taste of bile. Having to listen to this blabbering was making him sick already, and it's just been five minutes since they started talking.

Still, he kept his expression perfectly steely.

"Yes. It was hard."

The artificial blandness didn't seem to matter to Cam. If possible, it only made him beam more, which successfully nauseated Sherlock further. The situation's absurdity was starting to make the detective feel as if he was playing a role in a particularly bad theatre play.

Much to Sherlock's surprise, however, Cam stopped playing quite soon and actually gave him what he wanted. As always, the price was to be discussed at the end.

The man was indeed well prepared. It was one of his simplest and most effective tricks – he often knew what his clients wanted before they even came to him, and he was always ready. He would give them everything they needed and more, leaving them no choice but to pay for it. And they often did it very eagerly, too amazed by the man's sagacity and professionalism to understand what they were bringing on themselves.

Sherlock knew all of this, knew that the price of making a deal with The Cameraman was in fact a long-term contract. He was also aware that coming to Cam's house after breaking such a contract was pushing his luck, but he was ready to make any sacrifices that needed to be made. Truth was that at that point he couldn't really imagine the consequences being worse than never solving the case.

As he listened on, however, something started to click in his head. There was something wrong with this picture. He frowned despite himself and Cam noticed that, paused his soliloquy and looked at him expectantly. Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke, forcing himself to sound even.

"You said it was on Euston Station," he said cautiously. "I was there and questioned every habitue, every homeless and junkie who could know anything and they _didn't_, so how . . . " He stopped short upon seeing the look of pitying amusement on Charles' face. His frown deepened.

And all of sudden, the loose pieces clicked together and Sherlock finally understood.

An 'oh' escaped his throat before he could stop himself. Cam's expression became even more dramatic and when he spoke, his voice was indecently merry.

"'Oh' indeed! You must be losing your touch if it took you so long to figure it out. I must say I'm a bit disappointed, and not just by that. It's not like I did too much, you know, I only made it a _tiny_ bit harder for you. I was hoping you would get it faster, but I'm guessing that enduring the good doctor's woes clouded the picture a bit for you." With that, Cam smiled broadly again.

Sherlock literally deflated.

'So that's how it is. How could I've _not_ come up with this? Was I really so blind?' Hundreds of other similar questions flashed chaotically through his head in a matter of seconds, almost making him dizzy. However, when he thought about it more, it actually made sense. The memory of Cam and his ploys was very well concealed and took a lot of stimulus to decode it.

Still, Sherlock couldn't comprehend why Cam did this in the first place.

"But . . . why? What's your business in it? Why do you care?" He knew he sounded rather desperate, but he couldn't help it. He had what he needed, but he had to know.

Cam shrugged casually and made a flippant, shrill noise.

"I don't, really. I guess I wanted you to pay me a visit. And maybe I felt like having a bit of fun, too. I wasn't the one who gave you the fake trails though," he added quickly. "The failures were all yours."

Silence fell between them, a silence that was a complete opposite of the one Sherlock shared with John. He felt oddly almost overwhelmed by this one, for he knew it was carrying a promise of inevitable trouble.

His body became tense. It was time to pay for everything.

He tried to prepare himself for every possibility, but Cam's next words still managed to make his eyebrows shot up almost to the ceiling.

"Right, then. Off you go, Sherlock. It was nice meeting you again."

'What?'

Sherlock's mind went blank for a split second and he actually blinked a few times to chase the stupefaction away. He struggled for a brief moment to collect himself before he finally uttered his question, his throat slightly dry.

"W-what is your price?"

Cam easily noticed his agitation and waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh, don't be stupid! I'm not going to kill you, didn't you deduce that yet?" he exclaimed, clearly enjoying himself. "It would be a true waste, dear boy." He paused when Sherlock looked at him sharply and the detective's piercing, bright eyes locked firmly the blackmailer's. Neither man averted his gaze as Cam continued, his tone a lot lower now.

"People like you are worth much more alive than dead, Sherlock."

A grimace flashed through Sherlock's face, too fleeting even for Cam to register.

The detective's mind was spinning. Hearing all of that was like having a bucket of ice-cold water spilled all over him. In addition to the disarray caused by the troubles of the last two weeks, the awareness that the past he wanted to leave behind was most definitely going to soon return with a vengeance nearly sent his brain into overdrive.

He gathered himself rather quickly, however. Cam was not his major concern at the moment. The man was to be dealt with later, once John's nightmare was concluded.

When the thought established itself in Sherlock's head, the detective actually let out a small laugh. The decision to take care of his friend first instead of preparing to face a new rival came to him so naturally that it surprised him more than anything else that day. What was even odder was that he didn't actually mind it being this way.

Seeming not to notice Sherlock's momentary reverie, Cam clapped his hands loudly together.

"Okay! Go and celebrate now, I'm sure you've already solved this tricky little case. Please give my condolences to the doctor, if you wouldn't mind. And say hello to Mycroft for me," he said and got up sweepingly. "Oh, and by the way, thank you for taking care of dear Jim for me. You did one hell of job, really. With that guy and his buddies gone, I had a chance to . . . develop my business properly. It's truly booming now and it's all thanks to you. I am most grateful." Cam said merrily and walked over to the taller man. "It seems that you're working for me whether you wish so or not," he added with a malicious glint in his eyes and before Sherlock could try to move away, Cam patted him vigorously on the shoulder.

A minimal flinch shook his thin frame, but he said nothing. He got up as well, straightened his coat and followed the other man out.

Sherlock was starting to think that he might actually escape unscathed, when suddenly four men appeared out of nowhere and surrounded him before he could even make another step.

His heartbeat quickened a bit.

Cam turned to face him and put his hands in his pockets.

"You should know that getting rid of that bloke was enough of a repayment. For me, that is. Though . . . ," he looked at the men surrounding Sherlock with feigned hesitance. "I'm afraid my friends here will not be quite so forgiving."

Sherlock grimaced. 'Well, it couldn't be too easy, could it?' he thought bitterly.

The four men inched their way closer to him and turned expectantly to their boss, awaiting a signal like a bunch of trained dogs ready to pull their prey apart at a slightest nod. Cam walked over to Sherlock again and the other men stepped aside for a moment, their eyes never leaving the detective.

Charles' face was inches away from his when he spoke in a voice that held no trace of its previous suavity. Now it was raw, jarring like ragged fingernails running down a blackboard.

"You should really consider yourself lucky," he drawled out.

Sherlock held his gaze and remained silent, not allowing a single muscle of his face to quaver.

Cam then turned on his heel and started walking towards the stairs. His men surrounded Sherlock again. Not even looking at them, Charles called out: "Don't go too far, gentlemen." A moment later he disappeared on the upper floor.

Sherlock eyed the four men grudgingly.

'Damn it. John won't be happy about this.' It was his last coherent thought before it started.

* * *

_Okay, like I said - it doesn't really feel like a part of this story. And it's cheesy. I still naively hope you enjoyed it and that I made you hate Cam. As for my riddle - have you figured it out before reading this chapter? Please let me know, I had so much fun playing with you!_

_I would be extremely grateful if you left a comment, dear reader! Feedback is a very precious thing ;)_


	16. Things of importance

_Hey, guess who's back. To whoever is still reading this - I sincerely apologise for the unacceptably long wait. I have no excuses; I've been trying to write this for two weeks to make it more interesting, but the solution (explanation) still came out flat, and it definitely took too long. I did warn you in the beginning that it's not an actiony story or an actual casefic, though :P Don't expect too much.  
_

_Again, thank you all for your support. I had a great time reading your comments, exchanging messages, playing riddles with you. You are truly great, all of you!  
_

_I hope you will enjoy this chapter, and that____ its length will make up for the wait._ There will probably be only one more chapter.

_Warnings: a rather anticlimatic resolve of the 'mystery' + loads of overreacting John_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

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He was cursing himself for not calling right after he received the news. His intentions were pure, it wasn't as if he was trying to create an aura of mystery, that was something that the Holmes brothers were prone to do; Greg simply wanted to be there personally when the doctor found out.

After he had reached Baker Street and the jittery landlady told him that John stormed out five minutes earlier, Lestrade realised his mistake. Apparently, the news travelled faster than he expected and judging by the doctor's reaction, the unfortunate man didn't know everything. To make things worse, in all the chaos John left his phone at 221B.

The DI cursed out loud as he got angrily honked at by several drivers he passed at frankly alarming speed. He wasn't certain why he was doing this; it wasn't like him getting there a minute or two faster could change too much, but somehow he felt it was important to catch the doctor before he could get to Sherlock.

Greg shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the thought of what must have been happening in John's head at the moment. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and speeded up again and soon, very narrowly eluding a crash multiple times, he finally arrived at the hospital, hoping he wasn't too late.

Luck was with him. He was about to enter when he heard the sound of screeching tires behind him, but he didn't have the time to wonder how on Earth did he manage to get there before John did. The doctor all but jumped out of the cab before it even made a full stop and he started hurriedly moving towards the building.

Something twisted and clenched in Greg's insides at the sight of him. Every line and wrinkle on John's face along with the almost convulsive tension of his entire body openly spoke of his state. It was agonising to watch him like this again.

The doctor would have passed Lestrade without even acknowledging his presence, had the policeman not grabbed him by the arm.

"John! John, wait!" the older man yelled and John's racing thoughts scattered in panic at the sound. It took him a good second to comprehend he was being talked to.

"G-Greg . . . ," the doctor breathed, trying to yank his arm out of the grip. "Let me go, I have to go inside, I have to, he's . . ."

Lestrade grabbed his other arm soundly, turned him so that they were face to face and shook the shorter man a bit.

"John, he's alright, I don't know what they told you, but he's fine! It's nothing serious, you hear me? He's fine, I promise."

John trembled. A wave of nausea surged through his body, making him sway, but the DI kept him in place firmly.

It had finally happened; upon receiving the news, the little control he had over himself dissipated in a blink. This one last drop made the dam give in and break, drowning him in an overpowering mass of suddenly released feelings that seemed to be trying to take every single part of his being apart, to brutally punish him for suppressing them. Logic and reason were nonexistent in the storm raging in his mind at the moment.

He swallowed with difficulty, fighting not to collapse. He had a horrible feeling that if he did, he would literally shatter into millions of brittle pieces. He fought for breath, but luckily he was able to register what Greg said to him and it gave him the strength to start slowly returning to reality. More or less.

Sherlock was alive and safe. Or was he?

"H-how do you know?" John uttered miserably, every word burning his constricted throat.

"His brother called me," replied Greg. "He told me to fetch you and bring you here, but you slipped away too quickly. And you didn't take your bloody phone, now of all the times!" he added more lightly in a lame attempt at calming the doctor down.

John made a choked, broken sound, but his eyes cleared a bit.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I wanted to go back for it but I couldn't, I just had to . . . ," he started, but his voice trailed off quickly. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes tightly and let out a shuddering breath. He was still far from collecting himself and even knowing that he was overreacting, for there was no actual reason to panic didn't do much to help him. The first wave of crippling shock might have passed, but it left his already afflicted mind and soul in a state of desolation, as if a nuclear bomb exploded within him.

Greg released his arm and patted it reassuringly.

"Hey, it's alright. It's okay, just breathe, John. Easy."

John nodded shakily, but eventually his racing breath and heartbeat evened out a bit. Soon, the two men entered the building, Lestrade still keeping a close watch on the doctor.

.

"I said I'm fine! Is it so bloody hard to understand?"

Mycroft just raised an eyebrow in response to the outburst. The unimpressed look wasn't exactly mirroring how he was feeling about the latest events, though; he cleared his throat imperceptibly to make sure his voice wouldn't betray anything.

"Yes Sherlock, you've made it exceedingly clear. I'm afraid, however, that your doctors think otherwise, so I suggest that you listen to them if you don't wish be . . . put down." His voice was mild, but the last two words were clearly laced with a tinge of a warning.

The detective winced upon hearing that and the wince deepened when the bruised skin on his forehead stretched. Grunting, he unconsciously reached with his bandaged hand to touch the tender spot, but he stopped himself and put the hand back on the sheet. Unable to suppress a sudden wave of dizziness, he collapsed back on the bed, blinking stars away.

Hospitals. How he hated them. Wounds he could deal with, but of all the doctors of the world there was only one he put up with voluntarily.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, which hurt. He clenched his jaw and looked at his brother reluctantly.

"It's nothing," he panted through gritted teeth. "I had worse."

"I know," came a prompt answer.

Silence fell between them. Sherlock actually welcomed it, but Mycroft didn't. He knew what had happened to his brother even without asking; the topic of the Cameraman wasn't unknown to him, but up until an hour earlier he was hoping that it would be possible to keep his brother out of the problem.

The sound of tires screeching broke both Holmeses out of their reverie, but neither of them looked towards the parking lot - they knew who was coming.

Mycroft tapped the tip of his umbrella on the floor and looked at his battered brother, but his eyes were holding no sign of the usual haughtiness. Seeing how the recent events affected Sherlock rendered the older Holmes unwilling _and_ unable to play the usual game of aloofness and insults.

He sighed inwardly. It seemed that James Moriarty was going to haunt them all from beyond his grave for a long time – now in a form of a dangerous successor who needed to be dealt with soon. Added to the dilapidation caused by the latest, tragic events, it wasn't exactly presaging a jaunty future for the two detectives.

"I assume you are aware what it means, brother. We cannot ignore this problem, I'm afraid," Mycroft finally said. It wasn't him being cruel or insensitive; in this case it was quite the contrary, even if it didn't seem like it.

Sherlock averted his gaze.

"No. You can't. Perhaps you should go and see to it, then." His words and tone openly said that he wished nothing more than to be left alone. He had already made the decision of attending to the Cam issue later.

Mycroft frowned minimally.

"Sherlock . . . "

"Not now," the younger man tried to growl.

Mycroft pursed his lips, but after a rather brief consideration he decided that it could indeed wait a bit longer.

"Very well," he said and turned to the door. Before he left he addressed his brother one more time.

"Was it worth it?" he questioned quietly.

Sherlock's answer was instantaneous and unhesitating.

"Yes."

The detective didn't take a second to think that perhaps his older brother meant something more than just the sustained injuries and humiliation. Or he simply didn't _want to_ think about it.

Without another word, Mycroft left. No longer than thirty seconds later, the door opened again.

Sherlock turned his head cautiously and his quicksilver eyes met a pair of stormy blue ones.

Upon seeing his friend, John's barely appeased heart fluttered in his chest wildly again. Even knowing what to expect couldn't fully prepare him for this. The sight of his beaten friend reminded him of that horrible night two weeks earlier, causing the slowly drying wounds on his heart to reopen abruptly.

He hurriedly moved to the detective's side, barely registering any surroundings.

"For God's sake, Sherlock . . . what have you done to yourself?" he rasped, involuntarily extending a hand towards his friend's bruised forehead, all clear thinking forgotten. Sherlock eyed the hand and stiffened slightly, before it could even touch him. Albeit shaken up, John noticed that and quickly withdrew the hand.

Trying his best not to allow his voice reflect any of the pain he was feeling, Sherlock said the first thing that came to his besotted mind.

"I'm fine." It didn't sound too convincing.

"Like hell you are!" John threw out and slumped heavily on a nearby chair. "What happened? What the bloody hell did you do?"

Sherlock shifted uneasily and immediately regretted that. It took him a lot of effort not to hiss or grimace from the pain.

"It doesn't matter. I am alright," he uttered.

Just like he expected, it did nothing to calm the doctor down.

"Of course it _does _matter, you moron! You have no idea what I . . . " Words got stuck in John's throat. He cleared it with difficulty and tried again. "Agh, okay. Let me guess. You had a . . . chat with someone who didn't take too kindly to being insulted. Or they just turned out not to be die-hard fans of you. Or both."

An infinitely small, not pain-induced grimace crossed Sherlock's bruised face. There was much to say, but he decided that John didn't need to know everything, definitely not now.

"Well, that's one way to put it. It's safe to say we had all got . . . carried away a bit," he said dismissively, but the variety of emotions that twisted the doctor's face that moment was enough to guess that the crisis was far from over.

"I can see that, Sherlock. I can see that," John said weakly.

He bowed his head limply as a wave of sudden exhaustion descended upon him. Sherlock struggled to find the right words, but try as he might, he couldn't predict the doctor's reaction.

Heavy silence hung between them as John tried to rouse his mind back to proper functioning. He_ knew_ he was exaggerating, but he was helpless. The remains of his mask lied scattered on the threshold of 221B, where they landed when he received the call from the hospital. Now he knew that taking off like a lightning before they could call him again with more information wasn't too clever (especially that he forgot his phone), but clever was not on his mind that moment. He was cut off from contact with the outer world and there was literally nothing to stop the geometric progression of chaos and panic in his head. Hundreds of disturbing images and horrible scenarios flew through his brain so fast that it made the cab's speed seem like crawling in tar. Anxiety wafting off of John transferred even to the cabbie.

The doctor inhaled sharply and threw his head back, feeling how his face twisted uncontrollably, how his throat and eyes were starting to burn. He blinked hard in a desperate attempt not to let any tears escape, and even though he knew that talking would only make it worse, he couldn't hold it any longer.

"Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you . . . ." Again, he stopped, unable to finish the sentence. It was hard even to think about it.

The detective looked at him uncertainly, and in gleam of momentarily full consciousness he realised the whole meaning of Mycroft's words.

Was it worth it? Was it worth exposing John to _this_? Truth be told, it wasn't like anything serious had happened (although it could have); John was just quite sensitive as of late, but he was going to get over it quickly, so there was technically no reason to reconsider the answer to Mycroft's question. Still . . . seeing John in this state and being more or less responsible for it was making Sherlock feel somewhat guilty, no matter how pure his intentions were.

He swallowed and spoke to his friend with caution, finding it oddly hard to sound even.

"But I'm not, John. I'm alright, it's nothing to worry about. That's just the way I work."

John looked at him in a way that made words hitch in the detective's throat.

"_I_ _know,_" the widower creaked. "But please, try to understand me, it's only been two weeks since . . . since Mary's gone and when I heard something's happened to you I just . . . I couldn't think straight."

John paused again and looked away quickly but not quickly enough for Sherlock not to see his eyes glisten abruptly. The doctor pursed his lips, but was unable to stop a few tears form escaping. His next words were more of a throaty sob than a coherent sentence.

"I-I was afraid I've lost you too."

He hated himself for saying that; instead of helping, it made him even more vulnerable and exposed, but he just couldn't keep the thought down.

The silence that fell was so suffocating that Sherlock could barely endure a few seconds of it. Words rolled out of his mouth before his mind could even process them.

"I . . . didn't mean to upset you. I was hoping _this,_" he gestured absently to himself, "could be avoided, so I told you nothing, I just wanted to finish this. I thought it was for the best."

John shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head unconsciously. Eventually, he looked at the detective again.

"Sherlock, I appreciate that, don't think I don't, but I'd rather have this unsolved forever than you getting yourself killed while trying to solve it!"

Right after that he looked away, embarrassed. His own exaggeration was starting to truly rile him up. Sherlock said nothing, so John used the moment to try and collect himself a bit. However, there were some things that he still desperately needed to get out.

"You're my friend Sherlock, and it's _you_ who's important to me. I don't know what would I do if something was to happen to you . . . again." One more time, he paused and looked down for a moment.

"You're all I have left," he managed finally.

It was a creaky, barely audible whisper, but for Sherlock it had the strength of a sonic boom. It resonated painfully in his chest and immediately burnt itself in his head, as if to make sure he would remember the heartfelt words forever.

Sherlock didn't know what to think, or feel. Should it be guilt? Or satisfaction, for the nightmare was about to be concluded? Gladness of being considered this important by someone who was also so important to him? Or maybe uneasiness because of the very same fact, because he could never guarantee he would what was right?

Bewilderment rendered him momentarily blank, and with basically no logical thought left in his head, he did what was dictated entirely just by a simple, human instinct.

He lifted his pale, scratched hand and slowly extended it towards John who was sitting close enough for the detective to reach him.

With delicacy that at the first thought appeared to defy his character completely, Sherlock slowly placed his hand over the doctor's. Only when he felt the warm touch of skin beneath his fingers, he fully realised what he just did.

Both he and John flinched, equally surprised. Sherlock felt an impulse to retreat immediately, but as quickly as the impulse appeared, it vanished, leaving a strange sensation in its wake. The detective couldn't identify it, but it felt . . . quite pleasant, actually.

The hand stayed where it was. For a second John stared at it, before his eyes moved to lock with his friend's, but Sherlock has already averted his gaze, seemingly flustered.

John didn't know what to say. Experiencing this brief manifestation of the true heart of his friend appeared to have done the impossible; the simple yet meaningful gesture cut the storm short in a split second, as if the sudden contact begeted some sort of a mysterious force that radiated calm and serenity on everything surrounding its source.

A warm sensation blossomed in the doctor's chest, slowly embraced his clenched heart, loosened up his constricted lungs, filling him with what he hadn't felt in a long time. It was truly blissful, even if it lasted just a few moments.

John eyed the slim hand; now the sight of the bruised knuckles was more optimistic than just a few minutes earlier – it wasn't hard to guess that Sherlock's fist most likely had a direct contact with the face/faces of whoever had attacked him.

John smirked a little bit. Not wanting to prolong his friend's frankly endearing abashment, he briefly put his other hand over the detective's, gave it a slight squeeze and then released it.

Sherlock withdrew his hand, but it wasn't a rushed move. He _did _feel a bit embarrassed, but the notion was oddly minor. He would never admit that even to himself, but the brief touch had a soothing effect on him as well. His thoughts regained their steady, organised flow and after a short moment of silence much lighter than the previous bouts of it, he said what he was supposed to say at the very beginning.

"He's in Liverpool. Finding him is a matter of days," he stated matter-of-factly, not looking at the doctor.

Just as John's head shot up, Lestrade entered the room. After a few moments of scolding from the DI, Sherlock started explaining.

He told them how the lack of findings made him realise the killer must have been in London for a very short time, and that that was what caused him to take a closer look at communication hubs of London, focusing on railway stations.

John and Greg drank every word, and even when they get lost somewhere along the way, they didn't interrupt. Sherlock explained step by step how he excluded countless potentially suspicious individuals caught on station cameras, sometimes merely by the way they walked, other times by following their steps on the next recordings. Although he never emphasised how long the process was, it was obvious to both the doctor and the DI that doing this kind of research with the use of hours of grainy, blurry camera recordings from _one_ station would be exhausting, and Sherlock had apparently checked _every _single one.

The detective's voice was almost monotone as he described reducing the group to just six people whose involvement he couldn't definitely exclude without more data, but John knew him enough not to be fooled. And though Sherlock never said that, the doctor easily deduced that the process of obtaining the necessary information was directly linked to his friend's current state. John's feeling that whoever gave the detective what he wanted (and also what he didn't want) was no mere informant was confirmed when Sherlock reluctantly and roughly explained to the nagging Lestrade why exactly he used that particular contact.

He skilfully eluded Cam's name, but mentioned his group of 'trained eyes', as he called them. Those men, located cleverly in strategic points of the city - like communication hubs - were the Cameraman's most powerful weapon. They were computers in flesh, ground-level cameras 'programmed' for one purpose – collecting data. There was literally nothing that could escape their attention and their reports were often a source more vast than actual CCTV recordings.

After Cam had found out that Sherlock was gathering information on stations, he quickly added two plus two and deduced that the detective was looking for the murderer. Charles required his men to provide reports even more detailed than usual, and thanks to that Sherlock received a nearly flawless descriptions of every suspicious passer-by's steps right away.

Despite himself, Sherlock thought that had he and Cam been on different terms, he could find this level of meticulousness almost . . . admirable. Almost.

He shook the thought away and smoothly moved forward. When he finally said that all the data he had collected indicated that murderer had left for Liverpool, Lestrade couldn't take it anymore and swore violently before he managed anything eloquent.

"Liverpool? Are you sure?"

Sherlock didn't even gratify him with a look, so Greg simply continued.

"Well, that . . . complicates things. Saunders is going to need a few sessions of brainwashing to agree to contact them, they're not exactly . . . "

"Actually," Sherlock interrupted impatiently, "it makes 'things' a lot easier."

"How?"

Sherlock tried to prop himself up, but quickly let go of that idea when his ribcage protested vehemently. John shot him a worried look, but the detective pretended nothing happened and just resumed speaking.

"Luckily for us, Liverpool has been improving its level of surveillance as of late, on railway stations among other locations. What I did was a lot quicker than breaking into their footage base, it has a quite tricky security system, but now I do believe it will be worth a bit of effort. Their cameras are a lot more advanced than ours, so there's a fair chance for getting a proper look at him." Sherlock was looking at Lestrade, so he didn't see the doctor's momentary grimace upon realising that his friend didn't absolutely _have to _take so much risk.

Lestrade didn't notice anything either and just gave the younger man a slightly scolding look.

"No Sherlock, you will _not _break into their base. I did have an occasion to see how it works and if they would ever find out, you could forget about cooperation," Greg said firmly, eliciting an irritated huff from the other man.

"Oh please, you think I'm not capable . . . "

"I'm sure you are, but it won't be necessary," the DI cut him off. "I happen to know the right man, Sherlock," he added with a slight smile at the brief surprise in the quicksilver eyes. "I'll get you what you need, just name it."

Sherlock nodded with satisfaction. Not having to fight for access to the footage was going to make the whole process even faster.

This time, it was John's turn to speak.

"How did you figure out that out of those six it was the one who went to Liverpool? Did the . . . contact know _all _of this?" the doctor asked somewhat doubtfully.

Sherlock gave him a brief glance, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed.

"No, they didn't. But, um . . . when they confirmed that one of the suspects boarded that train, I recollected that your insurance company's only other agency beside the one in London is in Liverpool," he muttered quickly. He was still having a hard time accepting the fact that he could have come up with the same conclusion even without Cam's help, though it would have indeed taken more time.

John and Greg stared at him.

"What?" the DI threw out dumbly.

"Wait a second, are you trying to tell me that the bloody company has something to do with it?"

Sherlock looked at them both, trying his best not to be patient.

"No, not directly. They had a . . . data leak shortly before you had finalised your policy, but I had found that out about twenty minutes ago. They did a good job covering it up."

"Data leak?"

"Mhhm," Sherlock murmured, closing his eyes for a moment. "The man we're looking for most likely lives in a close distance to the agency if he was able to intercept the data, it was a short-range leak. He must have stumbled upon Mary's name, a name familiar to him somehow. He came up with the stupid idea that perhaps she would help him, since she was wealthy enough to buy a policy; he had her address, and the address of her workplace, all that he thought he needed, but it was actually desperation that made him believe that he had a chance of succeeding."

After the short soliloquy, silence fell again. Sherlock didn't open his eyes; somehow, he feared what he might find if he looked at John.

The doctor, however, was handling it rather well. The momentarily incandesced embers of anger quickly went out under the influx of blissful relief, for now he was finally certain that at least this problem was going to be over soon. He closed his eyes as well and inhaled, slowly and deeply, letting tension leave his body. For that one, short moment he was truly at peace with himself.

He opened his eyes when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Okay," said Greg. "I'm off to make some calls." He patted John's shoulder and turned to Sherlock.

"Text me with the details. And, um . . . get better soon."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes still closed. Hand already on the door handle, Lestrade turned to address the doctor one more time.

"We'll get this son of a bitch, John. No trip-ups this time, I promise." Before John even opened his mouth to say anything, the DI was gone.

And so, the two friends were left to each other again.

* * *

_I hope it was . . . enjoyable. I actually liked the part where there's just John and Sherlock, though it was kind of sappy. Oh well :D _

_I'd be most grateful for comments, particularly after this chapter. Let me know what you think of my portrayal of reactions and what could I do to make the explenation more realistic and interesting. Thanks in a advance!_


	17. A matter of time (or not)

_This is it folks, the last chapter! I can hardly believe it. My first story ever is complete! It's been a fantastic journey and I'm honoured that you accompanied and supported me._

_Since I don't want to make this AN overly long (it will be anyway), I'll just name everyone._

_Benfan, englishtutor, Isayan Jesmayan, SHansen, Thalianaa, Xin0Lan, Ani, mrswinchester1, Potterhorse-Spirit, Fang's Fawn, Tess, Irina, Anna, niki01, kotane, Lamarquise, Teshka, Crazyperson8, Lizzie18salmons, Meduimaane, TheSundayBlues, drpaz, paula. , princessamina 223, rumbleroar-redvines, wrygrin4891, Alieri, CorpseGrl, DJSteele, GuardieGirl, Hobbit-Sized Writer, Memphisyourastar, Mine77, Oyakodon, RiverSong11, TheOneThatGotAway99, Wingbat, cajungirkye, friendlythistle, h1gzt, jovance, Imutaski, mamakuzkina, nowsusieq, otterpuff, tvd-spn, guests: THANK YOU! You are amazing. (Damn, I hope I didn't forget anyone)_

_Right, on with the story! Like I warned you at the very beginning and later as well, the solution is not too interesting. Try to ignore it and focus on the feels instead :D Nah, just kidding (it's still tedious, though). Also, this chapter is told a bit more from the perspective of other characters, and it's cheesy._

_Still, I hope you'll enjoy it! Please, if you haven't reviewed so far (not that I'm blaming you), please leave a few words now. I'm dying to know what you think! No pressure, though ;)_

_I don't own 'Sherlock'._

* * *

'Breathe, Watson. Nice and easy.'

Frantic yells swirled around him chaotically, but he almost didn't hear them.

"How do you feel about the verdict, doctor Watson?"

"Sir! Are you planning to sue the MET and the Millers' Company?"

"What was your involvement in the investigation, Mr Holmes?"

"What are you going to do now that the process is over?"

The two men roughly pushed their way through the crowd of reporters, but once they exited the court, a new swarm of parasites advanced on them. Nearly jumping on each other's heads to get half a meter closer they outshouted each other, greedily pushing microphones in the famous duo's faces and blinding them with flash lamps.

It reminisced the inside of a beehive; even Sherlock, who generally didn't care in the slightest couldn't suppress distaste at the mere thought of the public and the way it had treated his friend.

However, all the noise and commotion just passed over the quiet doctor, meaningless to him in the face of the fact that the monster who had destroyed his life has been finally punished. It was all a blur and there had been moments during the process when he thought he was going to lose his mind, but the undeniable truth was that it was all finally over.

Sherlock and John didn't talk during the cab ride to Baker Street, as they both let themselves get lost in their own thoughts.

John's mind was doing things he couldn't comprehend. There was relief, of course there was, and he was glad, happy almost. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the gut-twisting bitterness was indelible.

'It is done, honey. It shouldn't have taken so long, but he'll be where his place is. He doesn't deserve it, though. He doesn't deserve to be allowed to live, he got away too lightly. If I ever had the chance . . . he would have paid for everything the way he should.

Oh, Mary. Where do I go from here? I can't just go back and start anew, not again, and I can't stay like this either. I know he will help me, in his own way, but . . . there's only so many times a soldier can get up, honey. I . . . I hope I'll find the strength, but I'm not sure if I can. I'm tired, so bloody tired of getting up.'

He was tearing himself apart. Haggard outside and withered inwardly, he was like a tree ridden with sickness - still standing, but not fully alive anymore, susceptible to any blow.

He didn't think about the last eight, nightmarish weeks; his mind was overflowing with bittersweet recollections, impotent anger and fear – fear of what was to come and how he was going to deal with it.

On the other side of the cab's backseat, the detective's mind was elsewhere as well.

'That's it, then. Everything that's happened so far had been leading to this. Question is . . . what now?' he asked himself, but no answer came. 'I did what needed to be done, but it's not going to get easier anytime soon; this much is obvious.'

Sherlock cast a sideways look at his friend. He doubted he was going to get used to seeing him this morose, and truth was he had no intention of ever getting used to it.

Inwardly, he sighed.

'I guess . . . it's going to take time before he'll start to see the world in colour again. Hell, I think _I _might need some of it, too."

It was going be a long, painful and exhausting process, but he knew that if he tried hard enough, he was going to be capable of bringing a bit of light back into John's life, just like he once did. He didn't yet know how, though, for he didn't think that just being his usual self and acting as if all was well was going to work, at least for some time; he had already made that mistake once.

Before he met the doctor, he had never even entertained the possibility of making anyone's life better. However, as years passed, he was starting to understand and accept what he truly meant to John and what John meant to him. Seeing what his 'death' had done to his friend, and even more so – coming through the last month and a half-long nightmare filled with hardships and confessions – have opened his eyes to matters the existence of which he either hadn't been aware of earlier, or simply dismissed them.

He kept his eyes on his friend for most of the ride, but John only looked at him once before he returned to staring unseeingly through the side window.

Too focused on what was going on in their heads, neither man paid any attention to the world outside and how glorious was its return to life after the harsh, unforgiving winter.

Every since her victory, spring incessantly proved her excellence that was a plentiful reward for all the months of cold and darkness. Slowly, but with subtlety and nobleness specific only to nature, she was painting the city with colour and light. The lush, juicy green of trees and lawns, as little of them as there were in the heart of London, seemed to absorb the rays of the Sun and return them to the world in the form of flickering spots of gold that danced playfully on the concrete. Variegated flowerbeds and pots decorated parks, pavements and people's balconies, and though sometimes they got a bit lost amongst the massive architecture surrounding them, a sensitive eye would always catch those fine splashes of colour more vivacious than the most garish banners.

People were different, too - their stride was more lively, expressions brighter. The Sun was not hiding behind thick curtains of clouds anymore; now it was manifesting it's full might by flooding the sky and the city with aureate light that reflected end glittered in the glass walls of skyscrapers, the shiny masks of rushing cars, the lazily flowing water of the Thames. For most people, it was a perfect time to simply enjoy life as it was.

.

Detective Inspector Jason Saunders couldn't remember the last time he felt so embarrassed. He knew he was being childish, but he couldn't help hoping that he would somehow get stuck in a traffic. Such things only happened when he was in a hurry, however, and now it wasn't one of those times. Sighing slightly, he took the last turn and parked his car a minute's walk to his destination.

He didn't necessarily _have to_ do this, but as stubborn as he was, he had his honour. He bit pride down as he briskly walked toward the door with brass letters on it. A minute later, he stood face to face with John Watson for the first time in three weeks.

The doctor was visibly displeased with seeing Jason, but the policeman could hardly blame him.

"Good morning, doctor Watson. May I . . . come in for a moment?" Saunders greeted uncertainly.

John regarded him with hesitance for a second or two.

"Please, come in," he finally said, nodding and gesturing for the other man to enter.

To say he wasn't happy with the visit would be the understatement of the century, but the level of adversity he held for the force, the DI in particular, has lessened significantly over the few days after the verdict.

Sherlock had been right; it didn't take long. The solution was far from dramatic - getting a high-quality photo and considerably narrowing the area of search resulted in finding the murderer, Thomas Bennett, four days after the Liverpool police had been alerted. It took quite some work on Lestrade's part, but once he convinced them to cooperate and the man was apprehended, he broke after just two hours of interrogation. His 'reasoning' for doing what he did was . . . not too reasonable, to put it lightly.

Mary had the misfortune of meeting him back in the times of high school, when they became neighbours for just three months.

Thomas had been a specific teenager – one of his issues was a tendency to treat very minor things very seriously. Though Mary had never got attached to him, _he_ had got attached to her. However, when she and her mother had moved out after her father's death, he didn't contact her; she and his countless other problems remained hidden in his head for years. As he started to lose control over the monsters raving in his mind, darkness descended upon him, detaching him from reality even further.

Fate decided that one day he stumbled upon the name of his old 'friend'. Added to the psychological problems, his progressing addictions and dramatic financial situation rendered him unable to realise that his plan to convince her to lend him money had no chance of succeeding.

The recording that Lestrade got from the befriended DI from Liverpool didn't reflect the honest reproach with which Bennett described how Mary didn't actually welcome him warmly when he entered her flat; he _complained _that she didn't even recognise him. At least he had the decency to show remorse after he finally confessed that he had stabbed her to death over something so petty and that he fled a minute later without even taking anything.

The rest of the story was consistent with Sherlock's version. Bennett's confession, the collected fibres and the footprint allowed to close the case in just a week; it took another five weeks for the court to sentence him.

As expected, the process was not a quiet one. Unfortunately, the disgusting speculations didn't die as soon as the news resurfaced; quite on the contrary, those who were already convinced the doctor's fault for some time refused to accept that they had been fooled and were not overly supportive. Those who were faithful from the beginning opted to take it out on the MET instead, hammering the DI and his team in particular.

There were a few press conferences, interviews, reportages, and technically everything had been said already. But even though Saunders knew that the mark this case on his career was enough of a punishment, he still felt he had to say what needed to be said personally.

Awkward silence fell as he struggled for words. John didn't propose tea, for he knew the DI was not going to stay long. The man didn't even sit down; he just stood in the middle of the living room, fretting and swaying from one foot to another. Eventually, he gathered himself and addressed John, figuring it was the best to get over it quickly.

"Um . . . listen, doctor Watson," he started, fighting to keep his eyes on the widower. "I came to offer you my sincere apologies. I'm sorry for the troubles my mistake has brought upon you and your friend. I have . . . drawn conclusions too early and allowed myself to become biased." He stopped for a moment. He wasn't used to saying things like that and it wasn't easy for him to get them out, even though he meant every word.

John observed him with his arms folded across his chest, but his expression wasn't half as reluctant as it was moments earlier.

Saunders continued.

"As a policeman, I can say that I did what I considered right and necessary to solve the case of your wife's murder. It was never my intention to let the investigation become a public bashing of you," he added shamefully.

And that was it; he was hoping to do better, but his pride wouldn't allow him to say more than that. He wasn't going to outwardly admit that he had screwed up big time, though he truly felt sorry about adding all that weight to the unfortunate man's back.

John was satisfied, however. Truth was he absolutely hadn't expected the stubborn DI to come and apologise in person. It was almost nice.

Letting a small smile cross form on his face, he nodded and almost chuckled when he saw a major amount of tension leave the policeman's body.

"Thank you, Detective. I really appreciate that," he said, managing to add a bit of light to his voice.

Saunders bowed his head with gratefulness, surprised how significant was the weight that dropped off his shoulders. He even let himself say one of the most cliché lines a cop could say in a moment like this.

"Alright. If there'll be any problems, just let me know. I'll gladly offer you my help."

The doctor's smile widened a bit as he stepped forward and extended his hand to the other man. He hasn't yet forgiven him entirely, but he wasn't one to hold resentment for too long.

Reciprocating the smile, Saunders shook hands with him.

Just before he left, the DI turned abruptly, almost embarrassed with his forgetfulness and addressed John again.

"You have my condolences, doctor. I'm very sorry about your wife," he said earnestly.

The smile on John's face faded a bit, but he managed a small 'thank you'.

...

...

...

Time was an elusive, indefinable phenomenon. It was truly hard to believe it's been three months already; it was a mere blink, albeit a bloody difficult one. It seemed, however, that things were starting to look up.

Sherlock grimaced slightly at the smell of the out-dated sample.

"Molly!" he called, not bothering to turn to her. "I need another one."

The pathologist looked up from her microscope slightly startled.

"What? Another sample?"

"Mhhm. Harrington's got rot."

Nodding resignedly, she got up without a word and reached for the lab fridge that was standing just a meter behind him. As ever, she wasn't capable of telling him to get what he needed himself, for she was completely vulnerable to his horrible talent of switching her he-is-using-me-o-meter off when he wanted something from her. She didn't mind it all that much, though.

As she placed the sample next to him, she risked a quick scrutiny.

All the ugly lacerations and bruises on his pristine skin seemed to have healed, and the dark circles underneath his eyes were almost gone. He appeared to be a in a sparkling form, but she knew him enough to tell that not everything was back to normal; not that she expected it to be.

Before he could look at her, she returned to her microscope. For some time, they both worked in silence interrupted only by the steady buzz of the old magnetic stirrer. Eventually, however, she couldn't take the not-knowing anymore.

"So . . . when are you leaving?" she asked uncertainly, without much hope for receiving an answer.

Sherlock briefly considered ignoring the question, but then decided that telling her wouldn't hurt.

"Thursday."

"Thursday? That's tomorrow."

He froze and looked at her with honest surprise.

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Oh." How eloquent of him.

Molly continued, her gaze turned away.

"And . . . for how long will you be gone?"

He took a moment to think of a reply, remembering the conversation he had with John two weeks earlier.

The doctor seemed to be coming through all the stages of grief at the same time, along with ones added by himself. It was frankly disconcerting, but Sherlock was starting to see progress, as slow as it was.

One day, after he had returned to Baker Street after seeing Mycroft about Cam, he saw John skimming through various worn-out folders. Making no sound, he walked over to his friend. One look at the folders was enough for him to identify what they were portraying.

"Highlands," he said quietly. John jumped slightly and turned to face him.

"Yeah," he mumbled, shifting in his seat.

Sherlock said nothing, and without removing his coat he took the armchair opposite, his eyes trained on the doctor.

John relaxed and looked at the brochure in his hand again. Delicately running his thumb over its frayed brink, he imagined her slim fingers run the same trail as she excitedly opened the folder for the thousandth time.

It was half a year earlier when she had shown them to him for the first time and every since then, they were planning a trip. Mary fell in love with the legendary Scottish Highlands when as a teenager she had visited her uncle in Fort William, and she easily planted the idea of going there in her husband's head. The events of December made them both forget about it for some time, but shortly before her death Mary brought the topic back. Unfortunately, they never got their chance.

John exhaled slowly and rubbed his eyes. He wasn't sure why he was looking through the folders; he honestly didn't think he could go there alone, though he was desperately craving for some peace, a peace he knew he had no chance of finding in London.

Absently, he spoke, more to himself than to Sherlock.

"We were supposed to go there. We hadn't fixed anything, it was actually meant to be . . . spontaneous. She just loved that idea. I was really looking forward to it." Regret was evident in his voice.

The detective remained silent and just nodded imperceptibly. He did in fact remember John mention planning the trip, and truth was he had even been slightly envious about it. Sherlock might have been ignorant sometimes, but he did have a bit of knowledge about things technically redundant, and the mysteries of the northern country have always been quite fascinating to him.

He seriously thought about John's words. It was clear that the doctor wanted to go and was uncertain at the same time.

And so, even though he wasn't one for vacation, it didn't take Sherlock too long to realise that he was actually willing to take some time off, too. No matter how well he played in front of others and himself, he _was_ affected, and just like John he wished to leave London behind for some time. It could be good for both of them, and the Cam issue could wait a bit, especially that Mycroft was taking care of it.

"Hmm, Highlands. Why not?" said he eventually, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

John tore his eyes away from the folder and looked at his friend with caution.

"What?"

"Sounds like a good idea," Sherlock continued, "Not the warmest place for holidays, but at least it will scare off the most imbecilic tourists."

John stared at him dumbly for a moment before he understood.

"W-what? You want to go?" he blurted out.

Unabashed, Sherlock made a 'mhm' noise and swiftly got up to remove his coat.

John sunk deeper in his chair, already lost in thought.

Well, that was unexpected. Sherlock openly expressing readiness to accompany him had never even crossed the doctor's mind. Yes, over the last two months and a half his friend has proven numerous times that he deeply cared, but this was a bit different.

John thought that Sherlock was only doing this for him, but he quickly came up with a surprising conclusion that perhaps the detective actually _wanted _this. Then there came a fleeting thought that he wasn't sure if _he _wanted Sherlock to go. John imagined the eventual trip as some sort of a catharsis and believed it could work as such, but only if he did it on his own.

He let go of that idea quickly, however, as he realised that there was nothing worse than facing his demons all alone, and nothing better than doing so with his best friend by his side.

The decision has been made. They didn't make too many plans, just bought the plane tickets, some necessary equipment, booked their rooms. They didn't even discuss the time of their stay.

Sherlock resurfaced from his reverie and returned to Molly who was looking at him with patience.

"For as long as it takes, I guess," he finally said.

She looked down, nodding. Again, they began working in silence, though she was constantly fighting the urge to ask him for some details.

He left around three. As she watched him straighten his suit jacket, she barely stopped herself from embracing him and telling him that all was going to be well. She nipped the silly thought in the bud, but didn't feel overly embarrassed by it; has she not known him better, she would have hugged him whether he wanted it or not. But, well . . . it was Sherlock, so it wouldn't be the safest thing to do. She settled for a short 'bye' and wishes for a good journey.

When he finally stormed out of the lab, she couldn't help but feel her heart go out both for him and John. Knowing what kind of a nightmare it must have been for the doctor to come through something like this again pained the kind pathologist almost physically.

Still, even though the damage was irreversible, she believed that together they were able to endure everything.

.

Quickly zipping his bag, John glanced at his watch and realised they had to hurry up.

He inwardly counted out the essential items for the umpteenth time and was about to yell at Sherlock to get ready when the detective emerged from his bedroom like a hurricane, banging the door against the wall. Not very neatly, he discarded his own baggage on the living room floor, swiftly reached for their coats and all but threw John's black jacket at his face.

"Move it," Sherlock said lightly. "The cab's waiting," he added, turning his coat collar up.

When he managed to tangle himself out of the jacket, a smile spread across John's tired face.

Seeing his friend like this was so . . . refreshing. The almost childlike excitement merged with the usual cockiness, but also a dose of poorly-hidden, genuine care were a true endearment for the doctor's troubled heart. Their gazes locked for a short moment, and again they exchanged thoughts without the use of words.

A small creak from the entrance door brought their attention back to their guest.

Feeling slightly awkward for interrupting the moment, Greg moved away from where he was leaning against the jamb and cleared his throat a bit.

"Oh, it's nothing. Don't mind me," he muttered.

He didn't know what he was still doing there. He just came to say goodbye and wish them a good time, but somehow he found himself unable to just come and then leave. Sherlock and John didn't seem to mind his presence, though.

He helped them with some of the bags, and soon all three of them treaded downstairs where the lovely landlady was waiting.

There was some sniffling on her part as she hugged her boys and said goodbye to them. Though they didn't have much time, they didn't rush her; even Sherlock managed to behave.

After stuffing the bags in the trunk, John turned to face the DI.

"Thank you, Greg," said he. "For everything. I know I already said that a hundred times, but I truly appreciate your help."

Lestrade smiled a bit sadly.

"Anytime mate, really. I regret that it was necessary, though."

"Well, so do I, but I'm grateful anyway." With that, John pulled Greg into a brief embrace and patted his back, which the policeman reciprocated. When they pulled away, the doctor spoke again.

"I'll call you when we go back and we will go for a pint or two. How does that sound?" he said, earning himself a slightly wry grin.

"Very tempting. But . . . ," the DI hesitated a bit, "_when _will that be? When are you going back? You never told anyone." As stupid as it was, he couldn't say it without a minor tinge of concern in his voice.

John was about to answer, but Sherlock interrupted them with his typical conceit.

"God, what is with you people obsessing over dates? _What _does that matter when we're going back? Surely the country will survive our absence," he grumbled.

Both Greg and John looked at him incredulously.

"Now wait a second, I didn't mean . . . ," Lestrade started, but upon seeing the look John was giving him – a look that openly said: 'just leave it' - he closed his mouth and good-naturedly grunted in Sherlock's general direction.

"So, John," he addressed the doctor again. "When will you be back?"

Looking away, John shrugged.

"I don't know, Greg, I really don't. No need to worry though, I assure you we _will _go back," he added with amusement. The smile that followed managed to show even in his eyes.

Time heals all wounds, they say. He had enough experience to not fully agree with that, though. Time was not the key factor; it was having someone close by your side, someone who would sew you up when you couldn't muster the strength to do it yourself. Of course, time _was_ necessary, for even the most well-tended wounds needed it to heal and cease causing pain, or at least start causing less of it. Scars were left to stay, however, but with time they became a more or less acceptable part of you.

He looked at his friend, who was apparently having a hard time pretending to be patient.

John knew he was going to miss Mary for the rest of his life. However, deep down he also knew that eventually, the pain would start fading. He was hoping for it and dreaded it at the same time, but knowing there was a person who was going to support him in these hard times (although with the use quite specific methods) was an invaluable source of strength.

Somehow, someday, they were going to move on.

Again, everyone said their goodbyes, and soon the two friends entered their cab, sitting a bit closer to each other than they used to.

The policeman and the landlady watched in silence as the black vehicle drove away and finally disappeared amongst countless cars rolling through the city in a steady flow.

THE END

* * *

_Aaaand that's a wrap :D I know I'm being obnoxious, but I'm really craving comments after this one last chapter. Let me know what you what your thoughts and doubts are, so that I can do better next time!_

_I am aware that this story needs quite a lot of work, particularly plot and style-wise, but I can say I'm relatively happy with how the whole thing turned out. I hope you did enjoy reading it, because I most certainly had a hell lot of fun writing it._

_I'm planning to add two one-shots to this story, one being a scene from the alternative version and the other – well, I don't want to spoil it. Do you think I can upload them separately (not as chapters of this story) if they don't necessarily contain spoilers and could stand alone?_

_Comment, please!_


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